


Compilation

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, a general compilation of bits and bobs, oneshots and drabbles, original versions of stuff prior to rewrites, some incomplete pieces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:55:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21677782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: A series of bits and pieces for the Undertale fandom; from 2015 to 2018.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. October 15 - Complete - House of Cards

**Author's Note:**

> I mostly just wanted to throw some of this stuff up somewhere so I really had a chance to look and see How Much I’ve really done, whilst also getting a chance to look over how my writing (and planning) has changed. 
> 
> The quality of writing will be poorer initially, keep that in mind. As mentioned, most of this stuff is unfinished- it’s things that either got entirely rewritten, or things I dropped because it didn’t grip me, or refused to come out the way I wanted it to. This is very self-indulgent, but I hope there’s some enjoyment to find here for others!
> 
> Feel free to take any ideas that stick out to you and run with them. It’s very unlikely I will explore anything here more than I have.

_ Complete- Oct 2015. vaguely introspective piece regarding Sans looking at the kids in a Everyone Lives setting. Nothing more than a shitty drabble; 900% not published because I wasn’t a huge fan. _

_ It’s not the worst. _

* * *

**In a universe where past, present and future came into existence all at once, complete from beginning to end, there is no chance, but choice**

**no luck, only consequences**

* * *

Frisk was a cute kid, Sans reckoned. They’re not much trouble on their own; pretty quiet, if you asked him. Sometimes too quiet, but the Underground had that effect. There was only so much one could be expected to go through before there were ongoing consequences.

But the kid was determined, and despite any foreseeable bumps in the future- that horrible period when Frisk was old enough for it to start clicking together in the kid’s mind, when they really started to question what had been and could have been done to them back then, by everyone they loved-- 

Eh, he could see them getting past it. With tears and shouting if need be, but past it.

Worst came to worst, he’d be around to keep that look off the kid’s face. The same one he wakes up to everyday, reflected back in the mirror. They didn’t need two old bags of bones drifting about the place...if it ever did come to that. He doubted it. They were determined. A good egg; the best that could’ve been asked for when mixed with the rest of the motley crew.

Asriel? Asriel was also a good kid. Reserved, in his own way. Being dead for centuries probably did that to you, as well. Sans sees him a handful of times throughout the last few months; emphasis on  _ sees,  _ since the heard aspect of things is a rare occasion. The kid’s soft spoken and softer still when he knows the skeleton is within earshot. Politeness seems to be the embodiment of what he is and does, though he’s no longer the central focus of everyone’s hopes and dreams. Frisk has taken up that spotlight now, and Tori’s first child doesn’t seem at all inclined to share it. 

The prince has been through...hell. Hell knows what the prince has been through; or perhaps  _ Frisk _ knows. There’s an understanding between the two that seems to go a lot deeper than what two kids who barely know each other should have; a history, even. The why and how of it escapes him completely.

Sans doesn’t ask, but it’s good to note. After all, how many dead kids come back to life, these days?

Two, apparently. And the second one.

The second one is...a problem.

Some people just have nasty streaks to them. Others learn from experience, and it’s the chips and cracks in the kid’s actions that give away which one applies to them. Chara, they say to him on their first meeting, with a smile. A smile that’s a little unhinged, a little knowing. Mostly just off putting.

More off putting when the kid goes out of their way to cheerfully advise him that if he ever breaks his promise to Toriel, he’ll have a bad time.

_ Dirty sibling killer. _

That one’s trouble. That one’s his clue, in a way that Sans doesn’t want or need, spends way too much time losing sleep over. He’s cluey enough to piece it together; cluey enough about himself to rationalize any period of time or space where he’d ever let the kid go to real harm- they’re few and far between, and none of them draw pleasant conclusions. Not a one.

Heck, he can’t even bring himself to hold it over Frisk. Kid found the right path in the end, didn’t they? Doing their best with what’s been given to them; a very heavy mantle to rest on very small shoulders. They need a friend more than they need enemies, right now.

They have a way of making things unpredictable. And Sans keeps an eye on them, sure enough. Keeps an eye on all three, as best he can. Removed from the bias of a doting parental role, to keep his assessments partial-- biased enough to care about at least one of them. 

Like watching a house of cards and knowing that any second, it’s going to fall down.

Frisk and Asriel could work on their own, perhaps. They’re good for each other, in a kindred souls that have no reason to be kindred souls kind of way. Always seeking the other out if they know they’re in the same room. Gravitating back together with mannerisms that speak of childish sighs of relief.

It’s a mutual balm to an unknown number of wounds. A relationship that’s more familiar than Sans cares to admit. Just the two of them, theoretically, could make it.

Frisk and Chara would be a nightmare. It’s unspoken, but past history doesn’t cover the way those two work. Not so much two individuals as they are one person; constantly holding hands, talking  _ for _ each other. Creepy as hell; it reminds him of one of those human movies Alphys had stashed away-  _ total classic,  _ whatever it was called.

Shove them all into a creepy hotel and the setting would start to fit the scenes.

Frisk built Chara up. Chara didn’t need building up. Just imagining that kid without a steady hand to settle them and a steady hand to settle  _ that hand  _ was- not a good time.

Hard to tell, with Asriel and Chara. He doesn’t really know them; they’re not  _ his  _ kids, just close enough to be considered an issue. But he sees the way they work together, sees the way it plays out. Knows enough from his own time around them to see the way Asriel never gets into trouble until Chara’s involved, like a lamb to the slaughter.

Heh. Bad phrasing. But what can you do when one bad alternative is completely overshadowed by another?

The whole unit, though; that’s what he’s got to work with. Frisk and Asriel and Chara. An interesting trio. Beneficial for the way Frisk responds to it. Detrimental in the constantly building mania that Chara exhibits and the varying success of Asriel’s steady hand- and they won’t stay kids for long. They’ll grow; into the little world they’ve made within each other. Out into the world around them.

He doesn’t know the hows and whys of it. He’s not gonna ask. Frisk has the whole world paying attention to them in the now, no need to bring up the past. 

Or every reason. Every reason in the world. Either or.

For the moment (maybe just for now, maybe for always) Sans was content to keep an eye on it. The house of cards on the verge of falling down; it might never go. And if it does, well.

There’s two things he could do with that, he supposes. He could build the house back up again.

Or he can put the cards away.


	2. Dec 15 - Complete - Life is a Ball Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Completed and published on tumblr, December 2015. Based on Renrink’s reaper AU; as per usual, my love for the kids was the focal point, rather than being all that interested in the soriel that should’ve been the focus.
> 
> The premise for the piece was “what if Chaos was as untouchable as Death, for the same reasons”? So forewarning for major character death

* * *

[ **_I’ll be good I’ll be good_ ** ](https://youtu.be/mkMVyw-7avI)

[ **_For all of the times I never could_ ** ](https://youtu.be/mkMVyw-7avI)

* * *

They were breathed to life in the arms of a goddess. Cradled from the jumps and pulses of time, warm in the vibrancy of the world. Their eyes open for the first time and it’s as if it always has been, always will be. Their first expression is a smile. Their first word is  _ mother. _

They are love. They are kindness. They take their first steps on the earth, feel the grass between their toes, and they are  _ mercy.  _ They are…

They are Frisk.

Mother is not so good at naming things.

* * *

Only humans can teach humans mercy. As the Emissary of Mercy, Frisk knows this instinctively. Another aspect to the world that always is and always has been, though sometimes, it helps to start a little smaller. They start with frogs. The frogs do not understand...but they are flattered, anyway. 

The child’s first friends are amphibious creatures that form a habit of startling Mother when they leap clear of Frisk’s clothes, or croak reproachfully from within the small canopy of flowers Frisk has taken as their resting place.

Those first weeks of life are...warm. Dappled sunlight between the leaves, loving smiles and warm arms that embrace, always embrace. Frisk learns more. They learn what it is to run. What it is to laugh.

They learn to love Life, in all it’s smaller intricacies.

Just like Mother wants them to.

* * *

They meet a flower, one morning. On the very edges of the garden, where the dapples of light turn into deep shadow, and they wonder if it’s not lonely there. Not sad. Alone. Afraid without the warm embrace of the life giving sun.

It talks to them.

It’s voice drips sickly sweet, boring down into an ugly grating that makes Frisk want to hold their hands over their ears. It tells them things- things that are...not real? Not unlike a story, but a story with no purpose. A story containing no history.

It calls them by a name that has no purpose and  _ every purpose,  _ and the very sound of it pulls at the fabric of Frisk’s being like a physical touch. They stumble, and the flower laughs; laughs in voices of varying pitch and tone and resentment as it tells them it will see them soon.  _ Soon. _

Chara.

Who is Chara?

Their understanding of the world is a continual work in progress; one that they have little awareness of. Little understanding. And yet, they learn anyway. They learn fear. They learn doubts. They learn secrets.

Frisk decides not to tell Mother about the flower.

* * *

They do not tell Mother that they’re leaving, either.

Frisk tries. Naive play and vapid attention to the tales she had woven across the sky for them wanes, and they begin to ask her questions. They ask her about what the world is like beyond the garden; about the other people who live in the world. They ask about stories that grow more and more secular, from countries to towns to people.

One day, they ask about themselves. Graceful robes flow much more slowly to a halt than the frozen arms wrapped within them.

They ask. They ask why they were created. They ask why they’re here. They ask.

Mother does not answer.

It rains on the day they sneak away. Out between the trees and through woods that seem to go on for hours; darker than the garden they called home. Colder. The frogs do not come. The broken twigs and stones hurt their feet.

They’re cold.

Frisk stumbles onto a road eventually, sniffing against a runny nose, squinting through the fat droplets of water that fall onto their face. And they look behind them for just a moment before continuing on.

They learn guilt. And they learn promises.

They’ll come back, Mother.

* * *

All Mother’s stories could not have prepared them for reality as it was.

Humans are not like frogs. They are not flattered. They stare blankly down at the tiny slip of a child in odd robes and with flowers in their hair, and they laugh. Frisk is easily dismissed in favor of the daily grind, leaving the child to their own devices.

It is possible that they weren’t ready to begin this.

The oddest sensation strikes them, at some point. Their stomach hurts. As they sit and poke at it, the same strange, empty sensation creeps right up into their chest, their throat. They can smell things...that make the feeling  _ squeeze tight,  _ insistent. They’re hungry.

They need money, the child is told. Almost blankly by taller humans who hoard their goods behind tall counters that they can barely see over, and Frisk doesn’t comprehend their meaning. They walk out of the stores with nothing, and they settle down for the evening with nothing.

The hard pavement of an alleyway is nothing like the flowers they’re used to. Nor is the latent cruelty they’ve learned of today. Selfishness.

Still, they…

They won’t let Mother down, right?

Perseverance keeps Frisk company, even when it cannot keep them warm.

* * *

Death awaits them when they wake.

With a very carefully wrapped slice of butterscotch pie. 

It’s been wrapped several times.

Death introduces himself as Sans, and...he’s funny. They like him, and for the most part, it appears that Death likes them, as well. He knows things; he knows that they ran from home, he knows that they didn’t tell Mother. And in spite of the ever growing insistence that they answer everything they come across with a resounding  _ why,  _ Frisk stays silent in shame.

Death tells them not to worry about it. C’est la vie...or something.

There’s a dead cat at the end of the alley, and Death goes to collect it as they eat. Something back the tiny, vibrating soul he brings back in his hands is delightful, and Frisk almost touches it before it’s pulled away. The pupils in Death’s eyes disappear.

They say goodbye shortly after.

Still, Death becomes an almost silent company, during the coming weeks. Almost silent, as he’s almost always talking. He tells them jokes until they giggle and points out things Frisk should and shouldn’t do. He tells them the way of the world.

Mother would not agree with most of what he says. So of course, Frisk also does not agree.

As much as his teachings bring an understanding of the darkness hidden behind closed doors, of the mysteries that Frisk should and shouldn’t know, he still brings them pie, every morning. The child decides that Death is not the right title for him. He should be kindness, instead.

* * *

Inevitably, they find their purpose.

Their real purpose. It stares back at them with fiery eyes that seem to draw inwards, redblackred pits that follow every movement Frisk makes without following. Chara, they blurt out stupidly; and Chara laughs, and calls them so.  _ Stupid. _

It. Them. They follow the child everywhere. A shadow from the corner of their eyes, drawing nearer and nearer as they attempt to concentrate on more daily routines. They’re getting there, with the humans. They see more smiles, more friendly faces. Conflict is but a distant memory.

They think it is. It isn’t. Chara goes where the child goes, and so does discordance. A feeling more than something to see, it causes problems. Arguments and fights and bloodshed, and with their heart pounding, they find themselves tongue-tied on what to do, what to say. 

Their greater purpose is right there, and they’re less prepared for it than the first one.

Eventually, they tell them to stop. Chara stops dogging their shadow. Chaos smiles at them, wide and sickly, and Death is there in it’s fingertips, reaching out for Frisk as they stand their ground. Heart beating. Beating.

Death relocates itself to their side as Chaos retreats, and Sans watches the space where it once was with black eyes before eventually asking if they’re alright.

Once again, Mother...they don’t know what to do.

Today they met chaos, and bravery would not have kept them alive in the end. What lessons could they learn that would achieve that much?

  
  


* * *

The flower is quick to follow; Despair on the trail ends of Chaos. It greets them with a sickly smile and a laugh that echoes like a hundred voices, and Frisk-

Does not find it so fearful, anymore. So terrifying. With a blank little stare and a shrug of their shoulders, they continue on their day. They have purposes to attend to and questions to unravel, the great mysteries of life.

Needless to say, it doesn’t seem to like that very much. Despair becomes as much of a silent companion as Death...which is to say, not silent at all. They wonder why so many people feel the need to talk at them so much.

The rippling effects of discord last within the small town for far longer than Chaos stays. There are suspicions where there once were none, and the child finds themselves on the receiving end a few times. Despair doesn’t help. It thinks they don’t see what it does when it stops talking to them, walking in the shadows of others and talking to  _ them,  _ instead. Whispering things. Advice. Rumors.

Premonitions.

Slowly, they come to realize that it doesn’t take a return of words to fight back. It takes flowers; in a worn little basket, hanging off their arm. Fighting a flower with flowers that are offered with simplistic kindness and a smile, dashing Despair from downturned expressions, bringing back a smile. Frisk quietly collects The Lost Souls into their basket in exchange for acceptance of a simple piece of flora, and gently, they spare them all.

The flower does not like that. But Frisk is sure that Mother would be proud of them, figuring out so much on their own.

There is pain in the world. And Despair. But if they hold onto their values, their integrity continues to carry them through, despite it.

* * *

Despair is a restless, ugly thing. It skulks and grates on the child, problematic in every way. It does not give up just because it is losing. It has its ways. Frisk finds themselves awake at every hour, just trying to keep up with it. Rekindle the lights that it tries to snuff out, silent and insidious, not always succeeding.

Death does not like when others dip their fingers into its realm. And the child finds out from a front seat view why crossing Sans is a time no one should wish upon themselves.

The struggle continues for days. Weeks, perhaps. They can’t always be there to see it. Mother is not here, so Mother wouldn’t know. They cannot cradle the world around them from the jumps and ripples of discordance and time, of things Beyond Things striking each other to the ground.

They lose them. Souls. People. Dozens upon dozens, and they learn to accept those losses even as they look to the horizon and wait for the calm to fall.

When it does, that’s when they know to return. To return to Death and Despair; both ripped at the seams by one another, Sans’ smile the smile of Something Else as he raises his scythe high.

It stops a hair from Frisk’s face as they quietly use their second word.  _ No. _

He laughs- in amusement, or disgust, and he leaves. Quietly, Frisk collects their basket, and they leave too, giving Despair the space it needs to collect itself from the bloody soil. Gods shouldn’t bleed.

They shouldn’t die either. Isn’t that right, Mother?

In the end, all they had to do was quietly wait on the sidelines, until justice had been served. In the end, even Despair deserved mercy.

* * *

_ Why? _

It’s nice to not be the only one asking that question, these days. The child wakes with that question whispered into their ears, continues their purpose as it’s shouted. The screams and wails of thousands are not so much deterrence as a distraction, but only for a while.

For the first time since leaving the garden, Frisk looks around them, and realizes they have to go. To somewhere else, somewhere that needs them. The souls that wave at them as they go sparkle and shine with a new intention, flowers in their hair.

Despair follows, and is silent.

There’s an odd sense of companionship in their wanderings. Mercy wanders almost aimlessly, though with a million intentions. Despair follows intently, but with aimless aspirations. It does not hate the sunset, it tells them one day. It hates most everything else, but it does not hate...that.

Silence is the answer. Silence and smiles and laughter, the only thing that the child really knows. But Despair does not seek smiles and laughter, so Mercy does not offer it. It simply waits, the quiet companion, until despair gives them something they didn’t have before.

If only Mother could see how close they are to their true goal.

So much time has passed since they’ve seen here. Time, that winds and unwinds, in the rush of the busiest markets to the quiet of a country sundown. Sometimes the spaces in between them are vast, but Frisk understands that much, now. Mercy has patience for such things..

* * *

Despair has a way of finding Chaos. Like an invisible string that eternally draws them together, closer and closer. Despair has back up, this time. Silent and strong and full of...something. The beginnings of something.

Chaos seems to dance with them. Winding back and forth across land and sea and sky, trying to make things harder. Giving Mercy more and more to attend to, more Souls to save. Souls that belong to life, belong to love. To Mercy. To Mother.

But they’ve learned to persevere, even when the mere sight of them causes humans to begin casting stones. They’ve found the bravery to keep moving forwards and the patience to understand when it causes two steps back. The integrity to shoulder the pain of the world’s weight, and the kindness to offer a flower. And silently, Despair leads them onwards...dispensing justice where it will. Watching on with amusement- or disgust, as Mercy always follows.

The child looks into the future, and they see it. It’s The End.

It’s coming soon.

Mother. They love you. 

* * *

Some could call Chaos ugly. That’s the mask that it wears as it howls out at the world, tears at the seams of every foundation. Time, companionship, life. Death. It rips up the earth and pulls down the skies and rains all of these down at once, an attack. A shield.

Mercy does not falter. The child, Frisk, walks forwards, when nobody else can. Lost Souls gather in their basket and disperse in the air as something gleaming and new, even as the world does not still. Even as the world attempts to fall apart.

_ Stupid,  _ Chaos taunts them. It- they, are scared. They step backwards, again and again, throwing stones and pulling up barriers that are too high for Frisk to see over, again and again.  _ StUpId! _

Mercy looks into their eyes, and they see it. It’s The End.

Death waits at the sidelines. C’est la vie. His smile has different meanings.

Even Chaos can be backed into a corner. It- they. Chara. Screams. They scream at them. They scream at the world. They scream of loss, and fear, and abandonment. They scream Death with their voice and their fingers, and Frisk waits. Quietly, they allow themselves to be spoken to, as they always do. They do not laugh.

Eventually, however, they offer a smile.

Chaos stops screaming. Chara shakes in their corner, a caged animal. Despair waits breathless, for  _ something. _

Mother. It’s The End.

Despair screams. Chaos screams. Death screams. Mother screams.

As they open their arms, and draw Chaos into their loving embrace.

Determination is only as good as the sacrifices behind it.


	3. Jan 16 - Incomplete - A New Beginning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incomplete one...shot? With a running title, since I never really sorted out a good theme. This story never really got off the ground; which is sad, since it would have been fun to explore.
> 
> Very basic premise; toddler Frisk, late teens Chara. POV Flowey for a reason I cannot remember, but I’m sure there was one.

* * *

**They were the beginning and the end; they were eternity.**

* * *

How many times has it been, now?

There’s no surprise to it, not anymore. He knows the precise moment to look up, before they even begin to cast a shadow on the ground. He knows the general direction of their fall, though they don’t seem to realize how much swinging arms and legs can affect the direction of their momentum. He knows the precise moment they land- well…

_ He’d say  _ **_safely,_ ** _ but they don’t always get that quite right, do they? _

What’s it like, to be that frightened? To feel that rush, over and over? To fall and fall, no breath left to scream with, chance and careful angling the only real difference between being capable of getting up again, or turning the flower patch  **red?** What’s it like, Flowey wonders, to be that incapable?

They haven’t even made it Home yet, the stupid creature. So pathetically  **_weak_ ** that they can’t stop themselves from becoming frog food or mulch- and oh, their despair. It’s  **riveting-**

For a while. As keenly attentive as he may have been in the beginning, there’s nothing really special about this human. They fall. They cry a lot. They die. They trigger a RESET. Every action is so rinse and repeat that he can’t bring himself to believe that they know what they’re doing. Just some idiot child, same as all the others; worse, perhaps, for how young they are.

Younger than the others were. Younger than he was? Yes. Practically still in diapers.

The whole scenario is bordering on such a level of utter fallacy, that he’s almost certain taking their SOUL would count as an act of  **Mercy.** This is clearly out of their depth, their ability to understand. On cue, he looks up-

And down they come again. Didn’t fall quite right, did they? Golly… he doesn’t even need to do anything, to see them wasting away. When he slips closer to the crumpled heap of human, he laughs. He laughs over their little, broken body until the light in their barely open eyes extinguishes itself, and it all clicks back over to watching them fall again.

Boring. They’re so boring. Maybe he should just start using them as target practice; it’s about all they’re good for. And that’s such a shame, because he was  **_so sure the next one would be different._ **

They aren’t. They really aren’t, for a good amount of time. It’s difficult to keep track when the RESETs negate it all, but they have to have wasted a good twelve hours like this, falling and falling and  **dying** and falling…. Before anything really changes.

Before, somehow, they land without so much as a scratch on them.

He’d stopped watching them at least a hundred RESETs ago, so why he goes back now is anyone’s guess. They’ve managed to survive a fair few falls, until something else kills them. It’s not about time. It simply means that the first indication he has that they’re  **fine,** **_perfectly fine,_ ** is coming out of the ground to see that they aren’t limping. One hand in that old lady’s, the other shoved unceremoniously in their mouth. They’re calm. 

No tear tracks. No sniffles.

.... _ Why, though?  _ Flowey leers at their back, wondering what he possibly could have missed to turn that useless little piss stain into something  **quiet.**


	4. Jan 16 - Incomplete - Routine/Cure for the Itch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both incomplete oneshots. Self-contained stories that I’m fairly sure were intended to be interrelated; one of Chara hating everything at a therapist’s office, the other of them hating everything at a social function. 
> 
> I think I’m pretty happy that these barely got off the ground- what I remember from both, they were intended to go in fairly uncomfortable directions that reflected a poor mental space in myself, rather than being fittingly dark. As it stands, they work well as character studies.

* * *

**Routine**

It's a steady tick, tick, tick of the clock on the wall that gets them the most. They stare at it almost dourly, practically tasting the medication on their tongue and the burning behind their eyes, the swelling of their tongue, the feel of blood underneath their nails and it’s theirs, haha. It’s theirs.

Frisk has politely asked her to remove the clock. She hasn’t. It’s a last stand of defiance, Chara supposes- willing to lose her sanity a little more for the eight hundred she makes a session, but not willing enough to let them walk all over her.

They don’t know her name and they don’t really care to. They’ve probably heard it a thousand times this past year, and they still don’t care to. She’s useless. Ineffective. They stare at the clock, fingers idly picking at a scab on their arm (They wear short sleeves, here. Only to here, and only because she may as well be as uncomfortable as they are. It’s the little things.) as she watches on, silent. Useless.

At least she knows it.

“Protoanemonin.” They murmur, cocking a brow when she jumps. What, did she really expect to just get to sit there, again? That eight hundred comes from somewhere. Frisk. Mostly from Frisk.

Practically anywhere (anyone) else, and they wouldn’t be bothering.

* * *

**Cure for the Itch**

They hate parties. Chara shouldn’t be here. They know it. Frisk knows it. Flowey knows it. Even Sans (especially Sans) knows it, and the night so far has been the same rinse and repeat process of looking up from their cup of juice to meet at least one pair of eyes across the room. They’re being watched. To ensure that they’re safe. 

To ensure that  _ they  _ are safe.

They let out a huff of breath and watch the way it makes the fruity mixture bounce up the sides of red plastic. Some of it might have gotten on their nose. The world is out to get them and it starts with making a fool of themself and ends with justifying why they did/didn’t do a Violence.

They hate parties.

It’s the first time in an hour that they’ve actually lifted their head. No one is looking, but it doesn’t hurt to confirm this before doing something as debasing as wiping their nose on their sleeve. Wrists are itchy; from the very edge of their palm, right up to their elbow. They’ve had practice at ignoring that.

Ignoring does not mean the sensation goes away.

...Why do there have to be so many humans at this party? It’s all on Frisk, of course. They couldn’t not make a friend if they tried. A casual Christmas get together with close friends, and they still had to rent out an entire conference hall. It’s too fancy not to double as a ballroom, sometimes, and in their mind’s eye Chara can imagine what it would be like if the dj up on the stage cried themself out of existence. If their gear turned into a full quartet and the thumping beats were replaced with lilting strings. If the small moshpit currently running in a circle was composed of women in luxurious gowns and men wearing far too many coats, everyone sweltering under the lights but refusing to commentate. The balcony would see as much use as it is now, but with less smoking. From casual to courtesan. 

They hate this place. And they hate parties.

Seemingly, the only use for people like them in places like this was to take up the time honored trope of ‘wallflower’. It’s better than the lot that Flowey has to put up with; he’s been in Frisk’s arms the entire time, and from here they can see him sitting grumpily on their shoulder as the Ambassador to all Monsters, the current Crown Child, jumps up and down like a fool with an armless friend. A small MERCY. They’re too big to carry around all night, even if they inspire just as little trust.

Five years on and this is likely their permanent lot in life. Chara would have to pass on their condolences to the angry petunia. Perhaps he could filch a full bottle of scotch, and they could drink the foul substance until it’s burn took the taste away and left them to spinning stars and broken commiserations. ‘Do you remember, way back then? Boy, we sure had a lot to look forward to. Our futures were  _ bright. _ ’

...Of course, this would likely lead to one of their infamous fights; a screaming match like no other, until Frisk intervened or one of them lashed out and LOADED back several weeks in a blind panic because  _ nononono I didn’t say you could  _ **_die from that comebacktome_ ** _ - _

On second thought. Forget that idea.

They hate alcohol. They hate him. They hate this place. And they hate parties.

Bathroom. Chara has absolutely no desire to go, but there is the desire to  _ go-  _ be free of scrutiny for just a few minutes, perhaps stare in the mirror and see if they could find that smile from when they were younger. Scary face, Asriel called it. A sick sense of humor, Flowey would spit. Their lips quirk upwards in the desired mannerisms of one so far past the point of pain it’s become a joke in of itself- and then it’s gone again.

That’s Frisk’s fault, isn’t it? Frisk, the skeleton, mother. His. It’s no fun, now that they’ve stopped seeing the world in a blur of wanting it all to just END already. It gives off a sense of obligation to care. It does crazy things, like ensuring time moves in somewhat of a linear fashion.

They don’t like it. A huff of laughter, as they push through the wooden door. Two doors; a tiny room in between with no life outside the dull bulb shining off duller tiles. Not modern, or hygienic.

Not nearly private enough, not when someone could push open the doors and walk in at any moment. They get an eyeful, just the one, before they’re standing back against the wall in the ballroom five minutes ago, and Sans’ eye is flaring up like a beacon from thirty feet away.

What the fuck else were they supposed to do?  _ Scream? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is worth noting that I started **Quicksand** around this time- my interpretation of Chara was very discordant and wouldn’t really settle until a series of very long talks with a friend about their motives and history. This ultimately led to that story being abandoned very quickly, as I fell in love with much more consistent characterization for them.
> 
> I’ve never really calmed down on exploring Chara, with a good 99% of my works from their POV, but they definitely evolved past the “mentally perceives the world as a Game and Frisk as the Protagonist, everyone else is an expendable NPC” schtick I was initially vying for in Quicksand. If that story had continued, it would have involved the two stopping Gaster from experimenting on Sans and Papyrus, and Chara never telling Asriel to get them the flowers, rewriting the future entirely.


	5. Feb 16 - Incomplete + Complete - I'll Protect You (And Your Dreams) + Kudos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The intended accompaniment to **Matchmaker** , from Toriel’s POV. I don’t really remember what I was gonna do with this, I just know that a friend desired that POV and gave it a whirl. It didn’t very far lmfao.
> 
> **Kudos** , by contrast, is absolutely a drabble, ruminating on San’s time in college. And his memories of it.
> 
> Or lack of.

* * *

**I'll Protect You (And Your Dreams)**

On the Surface, it turns out that opening a school is not as simple as ordaining it to be, as might have occurred in the Underground. There was much to understand about human politics; much to understand about grants, leasing. Sub-letting and hiring of qualified practitioners. The sitting of SATs and the scramble to earn, in her own right, the ranking of ‘teacher’.

Actual politics. Humans appeared to make an issue of absolutely everything, from pressure to allow for research grants of their own to...passports.

As if one needed a social security number and a document to simply be. Ah, but that would be fretting over the past. Things, to an extent, have settled. Politicians could be the ones to wring their hands over the practicality of offering less humanoid monsters their driver’s license. She?

She could wake with the sun. 

The quiet cottage Toriel had picked out for herself and her child was on the smaller side. Out of the way of any other buildings or obstructions, she had yet to bring herself to acquire anything to obstruct the morning glow...such as curtains. Their privacy remained, and should Frisk still be asleep, her child would not be woken by its warmth.

Sighing, she edges out of bed slowly, fur intermingling with carpet and keeping each footfall soft in sound. Six months old; the newness of it was a novelty. The upstairs landing consisted of only three doors; her room, the bathroom. Frisk’s tiny abode. Downstairs offered little more, taken up by the expansive kitchen and a cozier lounge. Tiny.

A cottage, the humans called it. The acreage of land that went along with it had been as much of a selling point as the house, though plenty of newfound friends had raised a brow at it. Sans, bless him, commented only on it’s warmth, and nothing else.

Perhaps he also understood the feeling of an empty home.  
  


* * *

**KUDOS**

Vaguely, he remembers what college was like. Bits and pieces. That was back in the day when things were a little more hectic, a little more lively. The capital was fit to burst; living there was a nightmare. Study brought a sense of achievement and friendships that hinged on one too many binge drinking nights in the shadiest damn places this bottom of The Rocks- as most of the people he’d known back then called it. Young adults. Overused wordage wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of humor, but you get a crowd together and someone was bound to find comfort in it.

There’s a few nights of last minute cram to remember there; more nights of that then there are days of actually studying. One time he had a duster thrown at him when he fell asleep giving a presentation. Somebody’s pants became the campus flag for about two weeks before anyone figured out how to get them off the cavern ceiling- he might’ve had a hand in that too.

Other things outside of it. Papyrus. A lot of Papyrus, but when isn’t there. These were the days when things were seemingly linear and the prospect of a future, whilst mildly disturbing, wasn’t so consistently out of reach. He remembers the day he got his diploma; probably one of the proudest moments of his life. Real big achievement.

Remembers the night following it and the sudden realization that, in comparison to everything humans have probably discovered in the time they’ve all been locked underground, that diploma was probably moot.

Very clear image of his response to that. Down to the deepest hole The Rocks had to offer, staring into a cup of whatever the fuck with some shadow of a friends (possibly friends) leaning over his shoulder. Can’t remember the exact pitch and tone of their voice, but the words stand out, even now.

“You ever get that sense that like, I dunno man, nothing even matters?” Slurred, probably. All drunk. All bitter. Way to young for that foreboding sense of existential nihilism. A hand may have been waved dramatically (drunkenly) in the air. “Here we are, buddy. A bit of paper that says ‘go find a job’, and oblivion round the corner. We’re all just distracting ourselves until we die. S’like we’re not even here.”

Still can’t remember their name. Or their face. Or practically any other instant where they might’ve been involved with his life. So yeah. Kudos on that one, buddy.

S’like you were never there at all.


	6. Feb 16 - Incomplete - Emergency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One...shot? Incomplete. I was really excited about this premise when I first started it- Frisk manages to revive Chara when they’re in college, but Chara is still about 11 years old. I was going to explore the shift in their dynamic, where Chara goes from being the eldest, needing to take charge and console, to being absolutely out of control and very much not keen on Frisk being the one to parent them. 
> 
> Sans being the one forced to teach Frisk how to parent was definitely to give the fic some needed humor. I genuinely hope I can re-explore this idea one day, or just larger age gaps between the kids in general.

**Working Title;** Emergency

**Rating;** Mature?

**Tags;** post pacifist end, hurt/comfort, references of child abuse, past murder, current murder, SAVES and LOADS, gonna put the dunk in dunkle, Frisk attempts to be a parent, Chara, self-harm, references of suicide, more to add probs

**Summary;** And that’d be fine and dandy, except Frisk lives in a dorm. Whilst the security contracts they’d signed up on didn’t bar a talking flower from the kid’s abode, a larger, less pleasant something (that just happened to also look like a kid) probably wasn’t covered by insurance.

* * *

**What do you suppose is the use of a child without any meaning? Even a joke should have some meaning-- and a child's more important than a joke, I hope. You couldn't deny that, even if you tried with both hands.**

* * *

Frisk is the only kid he’s ever been involved in raising. All things considered (like that time he fell asleep during a dad/kid trip to the beach and woke up two days later, or the almost unfortunate incident where he let Papyrus attempt to superglue a tooth back into their mouth) he likes to imagine they turned out as decent as they did with the help of some, small contribution he’s made to their wellbeing.

They’re...uh. They’re still a handful sometimes, mind. Stubborner than Tori, even before things went down. Growing up around so many people with stubborn streaks of their own hadn’t helped smooth that little quirk out. Too independent for their own good, as well. The word of the day could be ‘teamwork’, and Frisk would still only take the help if they allowed it; not because they needed it. Always had to be working on or through something. Always taking charge in finding solutions on their own.

They’re nineteen and live alone in a dorm room with a potted, talking flower. Exhibit A in Frisk’s never ending quest to try.

He’d like to say they’ve toned it down a bit, but Sans knows better than to pin his hopes on that one. Only got the one to spare. Doesn’t see the use in wasting it.

S o when he gets A Call from Mom (with a capital M, for maximum Motherly Undertones and a hint of tears) it’s not a surprise. It’s not even something to call home about. He does anyway, for Tori’s sake. Slides right off his seat at Grillbys and onto the couch in her sitting room, almost on top of a kid he swears he’s never seen before.

Red eyes peer up at him.

Feels like everything’s a blur after that, but it’s not. Red eyes keep staring up at him as Frisk lays a hand on the kid’s shoulder, and there’s an ache in his spine that wasn’t there a fraction of a second ago, tang of ozone in the room that no one else takes any note of, but it makes the sudden tenderness of his right eye socket make sense quick enough. Not Frisk’s smoothest LOAD, not by far. Doesn’t have to look at their face to know it’s because something’s disturbed them.

The fact that there’s a nasty little voice in his head telling him he just died doesn’t help things, either.

* * *

Chara.

He’s vaguely reminded of cutesy little avatars from that one MMORPG someone released in the Underground (it shut down pretty damn fast), but it’s not a pun, and it’s not a coincidental nod to the history books, either. Toriel looks like a ghost, lost in the growing expanse of her living room, and the kid doesn’t even look at her. Doesn’t acknowledge her in words, past the point of telling Frisk; “I will not stay here”, in a clipped, regal tone that’s accented in a way he hasn’t heard before.

Makes sense that he hasn’t heard it before; lots of countries on the Surface. Something he’s decided to call intuition tells him that’s not the real issue.

Besides, that’d be fine and dandy, except Frisk lives in a dorm. Whilst the security contracts they’d signed up on didn’t bar a talking flower from the kid’s abode, a larger, less pleasant something (that just happened to also look like a kid) probably wasn’t covered by insurance.

Frisk spends two hours arguing with Sans about staying at his place. He’s not even sure why he’s so against it.

Even less sure about why, once the kid inevitably gets their way (they always do), he puts in a call to Papyrus and recommends a semi-permanent sleepover at Undyne’s for the next however long.

The whole time this is occurring, Chara just sits there. Spine ramrod straight, not looking at anything, not playing with their fingers. The fact that Toriel looks about ready to go wandering up a mountain of her own, or the fact that this kid’s been dead for over a hundred years, or the fact that Frisk won’t budge an inch, for him or their mother, about  _ how  _ they’d pulled this one off- any of those could be what’s got his mind so geared up into the idea that Things Aren’t Right.

Or maybe it’s just the look the new kid gives him right before he steps out to make his important call.

He’ll admit it. Some find his personality grating. Sans can’t win everyone over; but in that instant, he knows he’s never been given a such an intense look of unadulterated loathing aimed his way in his life.

(Has he?)

* * *

What’s more troubling to an already troubled mind? Getting the blazing fire they’d come to expect would occur, or not getting anything?

He’s going to go with the latter.


	7. April to June 16 - Complete - Multiple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> April to August was mostly character studies around publishing chapters of things, so what I do have is… a lot of Chara stuff, which makes up the next chapter as well. It’s all pretty self-explanatory. Some of it may read oddly, as it was formatted for a completely different style of writing. The quality varies a bit, here and there.

* * *

**FATHER**

He looks at you.

You're mid-bite when he does so, and the broth you've scooped into your mouth immediately tastes like ash as you meet his gaze, stomach dropping out from under you. Among the rows of other children at the party table, you straighten your spine in what you hope is a subtle manner, mentally check-listing anything that you could have forgotten. Your clothes are neat; you're sitting properly. You're using the correct spoon for soup and you've been making small-talk where required, though no one really wants to speak to you anyway.

So why is he looking at you?

“That's right,” He says to the woman on his left. You know her name, but it's completely escaped you now as your pulse quickens and your mouth goes completely dry, fingers frozen around the eating utensil. “Chara has recently taken up piano lessons; quite the child prodigy too, according to Miss Larkson.”

His smile doesn't meet his eyes. It never meets his eyes.

“I'm quite proud of them.”

You hope the floor will eat you. The woman (you need to figure out her name; it's on the tip of your tongue, and you struggle to keep your breathing regulated as it continues to escape you, but you really need to know her name-) laughs, smiling down your way as she continues to speak with your father, and whatever pathetic sense of appetite you had is gone the moment she mentions hoping to hear you play, one day.

“Oh, I'm sure Chara wouldn't mind playing a piece for us in the lounge, after dinner. Would you Chara?”

He's daring you to say no, you think. As if you could ever say no. As if he isn’t going to ask you to play that one piece you’ve only recently been deemed satisfactory in. It’s not perfect, and you need to practice.

As if he doesn't know you're going to make a mistake.

You can feel a line down your back aching. The swelling hasn't gone down. You doubt it's going to have a chance to, tonight.

Not when he's setting you up to fail.

“...Of course, father.”

But anything is better than trying to say no. Especially now. Especially ever.

You're certain the first no you ever utter will be on the day that you die.

* * *

**MY NAME IS….**

"My name is Chara D... Mn."

And a stutter to end the sentence. Kind of. More like your lips wobble in something vaguely resembling another word, and try as you might, you can't seem to get it out from where it's gotten lodged in your throat.

But that's fine. It's fine. Toriel's helping Asriel get ready in the lounge, Asgore's making tea. This far down the corridor, someone might see you, but no one would guess at what you're doing, standing at the mirror.

Maybe you're just admiring your clothes. Purple looks okay on you...vaguely. The Delta Rune is stitched proudly over your chest, and your hand flutters over the mark almost helplessly. You're royalty, aren't you? You're royalty. Because you're-

"My...my name is Chara... Dreemurr." Immediately, you tense, throat closing up and eyes drifting towards the kitchen. But there's no god to smite you down. No jovial, fluffy monster comes running down the hall, voice booming with anger as you completely and utterly besmirch their name. The word's finally loosened from your throat- your heart takes its place.

You wait in silence as it pounds away, blood rushing to your cheeks as you stare back at your own reflection; too pale, too thin, hair- neat. Because Toriel cut it for you. Mrs... Mrs Dreemom cut it. And then she gave you some tea and a piece of chocolate at the end, commending your bravery even as you sat at the kitchen table rebuking yourself internally, because who shakes like a leaf at a haircut? The back of the scissors had brushed your ear only the once, and you'd thought, in that long moment;  _ this is it. This is how I die. _

Asriel's laughter filters down from the sitting room, high pitched and childish. Accompanied by Toriel's loving chuckles, and you breathe. Exhale, inhale once more. Your hand stops it's nervous flight about the stitched rune on their chest, clutching at the fabric to feel the shape of the metal hidden beneath.

"M-my name is Chara Dreemurr."

God is very slow today. You're still standing.

It's funny. The smile on your face, it almost looks-

Deep breath. You straighten your shoulders, raise your chin. Think hard about how Toriel carries herself, the poise in every motion and the elegance of her words. She is regal; she is a queen. And you are her child, and-- Asgore's child, and Asriel's sibling. You are.

You are.

"Greetings. My name is Chara Dreemurr."

In the mirror, you watch as the smile on your face widens, a pleasing warmth running through your chest that eases tense, stiff shoulders, and you would almost be inclined to call yourself pretty.

You've never considered it before.

* * *

**Two Kids Play In A Muddy Garden**

“Asriel, stop it.”

Your tone is halfhearted; as irritating as he's being, he's also giggling madly, and the sound isn't disagreeable, even if it's at your expense. Big eyes peer at you from around the tree before disappearing once more, and you sigh to yourself, unable to escape the way your lips turn upwards of their own accord.

Dolt.

Things go quiet for a short while. You go back to what you were doing in the first place; there aren't many flowers in the Underground, but now and again, you'll find a patch of something. These (you don't know what they are, though you'd called them Orange Croissants when Asriel asked. He still isn't any the wiser) are a little too big for the intended daisy chain your fingers are trying to recreate, but they still retain your interest.

...Still. It's a little too quiet.

“...Ree.” A muffled giggle. You can't tell where it's coming from.

“Ree, what are you doing?” No answer. Seems like only giggles live here, now.

Okay. Another, long suffering sigh- carefully, you place your flowers between the roots of the tree you're sitting against, out of sight and out of mind. Out of harm. Looks like you have a brother to find.

“Alright, Ree. Come out come out wherever you are.” Sing-songing as you stealthily creep around the tree trunk, moving faster at the last moment, but still coming up empty handed. He's really playing with you today, and the slight fizzle of anxiety is easy to push away- so long as he keeps giggling.

It's fine if he keeps giggling.

“Asriel Dreemurr, if you don't-”

Something hits your face.

Your first reaction, before even realizing what it is that's hit you, is to flinch violently. Then you start to take stock; note the fact that whatever it is, it's thick. Goopey. Smells like earth and is, in fact, earth. Wet earth.

The correct definition is mud, but you're too busy whirling on your aggressor to care.

Said aggressor is roaring with laughter.

“Oh, that's funny, is it? Yes, hilarious. Upstanding comedy, meet your finest hour.” Oh, but you are a little mad. And there he is, clutching his stomach and doubling over as he tries to find a gap to breathe, sucking all the anger away and leaving that same fond sense of irritation that he usually gains from you. Dolt.

If he thinks it's that funny, he can join you. A split second later, and his laughter cuts off into a shriek as your arms wrap around him, tackling the fluffy creature straight into the mud.

_ “Chara! _ Chara- haha, nooo, mom's gonna be  _ so mad-” _

“Tough luck.” You retort, and he sputters as you shove a handful of mud into his gob. He retorts by pushing a handful down the back of your shirt. Mother is going to be furious, but for now...

You're laughing too hard to care.

* * *

**A TRIP TO THE DUMP**

“Well, this is it!”

You’ve been perfecting the art of raising your brow, lately. Partially because the action always seems to get a laugh out of Asriel, and partially because, in a personal, secret way, you’ve decided that it makes you look pretty in the know. Wise, almost. Or at the very least, older than you are.

The dimly glowing crystals don’t really give much in the way of light. You’ve long since walked past the last generator lit area, however, and it’s all the light you have to see with; not that you need to see to know you’re thigh deep in murky water that’s long since sent your toes numb. Lumpy shapes are built up around you, a few objects within the piles distinguishable. A broken bike here, half a bedpost there. It’s a junkyard.

He did say it was a garbage dump, but you honestly hadn’t believed that anyone would be that excited when proposing a trip to someone. An hour later, and it turns out that, no. It’s not just another, inexplicable phrase that’s been lost in translation between humans and monsters. Asriel had legitimately brought you to a junkyard. He’s not even looking at you; too busy staring at the  _ trash _ in a way that makes you wonder if he’s about to gain some strictly anime-esque hearts for pupils.

“Isn’t it amazing?” He gushes.

You feel that your eyebrow raising ability is rather wasted in this environment.

“Oh c’mon, I mean it!” Definitely wasted, if Asriel’s high spirits are anything to show for it. He nudges you gently with one shoulder, something you try to take in good spirits- but right now you’re thigh-deep in things you don’t want to think about, and the best you can do is pretend to be intensely interested in the broken flower pot floating nearby, so he doesn’t see the sour look on your face. “It really is a cool place, Chara. I mean... we don’t really have a lot of resources down here, haha. But then humans just...throw so much away?  _ So much. _ I don’t think we’d be able to have half the things we do if they weren’t so busy making new things all the time.”

Oh, here he goes again. Splashing forwards in the water, Asriel cares about as little for how wet his fur is getting as he seems to about your steadily worsening disposition, still going on and on about humans, of all things.  _ Oh, how great, Chara! They trapped us all down here to die, and now we get to live in their garbage dump, too! So merciful, those humans! So lucky, are we! _

“-great?”

“Great.” You echo flatly. You haven’t been listening for at least a minute, at this stage. Sometimes it’s all you can do, not to resent his faith in things.

He just doesn’t know any better, that’s all. It’s...not a crime. It’s not a crime, you repeat to yourself firmly. He’s just lucky.

“Okay! So let’s split up- I bet I can find something cooler than you.” That does draw your eyes, watching this little...fluffy goat puff himself up, eyes gleaming in challenge. He’s trying to rock back and forth on his heels, like he always does when he gets like this- but every time he makes the motion, he almost throws himself right off balance, and still, he’s just got that…

Dopey grin on his face.

You can feel your own lips curving upwards in turn. He’s playing you, and you get that. Making it into a game because he knows you’ll insist on going until you’ve won, but part of you is fine with that. Part of you isn’t, but it’s easily smothered under your own exasperated affection.

“Mm. If I win, then I get your dessert for a week.”

“H-hey, that’s not-”

You won’t actually take his dessert. You never do.

“And  _ go! _ ”

“Chara, hey!"

But it’s funny when he thinks you’re serious.

* * *

**I Know Why Chara Climbed The Mountain**

“Hey...Chara? Are you awake?”

The room’s been silent for at least twenty minutes, but of course you are. Waiting for your eyes to adjust in the dark; just like they never do. Six months, three days- you’re not sure of the hours, but that’s your fault, isn’t it?- and you’re still not quite used to that fact. In a cave, there’s no such thing as moonlight. There isn’t even a window in your room; just the door, and now that Toriel and As-the king have retired to bed, there’s no light creeping underneath that, either.

It’s pitch black. Real darkness, unlike the nights that you’re used to. In some ways the change is a relief; proof that there’s a distinction between there and now, but in others-

It’s hard to sleep when you know you’d never see someone sneaking up on you.

“Yes, Asriel. I’m awake.”

“Oh, cool. Me too.” He says, as if that wasn’t obvious enough. Everything falls silent again, though after a moment, you can hear him turning in his bed. Shifting to look over at you, presumably, even though you’ve already asked, and you know his eyesight isn’t any better than yours. You don’t shift in response; just keep at your own vain attempts to stare at the ceiling as you wait for him to speak again. Late nights usually mean there’s something on his mind.

“I guess I was kind of curious, uh; remember the day you came here?” A scoff. Do you  _ remember _ the day you came here? At what point would you ever forget.

“I mean, well...sure you do, just...you said something weird, when mom asked you how you got here.” Asriel mumbles awkwardly. You don’t need the light on to know that he’s probably got his hands twisted in the sheets, pulled up to cover his mouth. He mumbles. A lot.

It should be more irritating than it is.

“Considering the state I was in when I got here, I imagine I had a lot of weird things to say, Ree.” Oh, fine. You roll over to “face” him, so to speak, using the motion to curl into the sheets that little bit tighter.

Bedsheets. That’s still a new concept, too.

“Enlighten me, though. Which one?”

“Well, mom asked you about the mountain. You know, Mt...Ebott, right? And you said that humans have this fairy tale they tell about it, that- uh…”

“Legend, not fairy tale.” You correct automatically. You know the tale he’s talking about immediately- the only part that rankles you is not remembering the discussion with m-Toriel. At all. “Legends say that travellers to the mountain disappear.”

“Yeah! That’s it.” He kicks his feet- you can hear him doing it, before going completely still. “So...how come you climbed the mountain?”

That’s not the question you were expecting.

“What?”

It’s too soon.

“You know what I mean; just...isn’t that kind of scary? A mountain where travelers disappear…” His voice gets hushed right at the end, like he’s telling you some spooky tale you’ve never heard before. “I’d be scared.”

“Yeah? Well luckily for the both of us, I have a spine.” You retort tersely.

When he doesn’t immediately reply, you regret being terse at all. Still...part of you also hopes that this is the end of this conversation. You know where this is going.

You just don’t know what answer to give.

“...Chara?”

“...Yes, Asriel?”

“Why would you ever climb a mountain like that?”

Part of you knew this was coming. Part of you has known for months. Expectations don’t change reality, of course; doesn’t stop the way your heart thuds painfully in your chest, or the way it gets harder to breathe. Your throat gets all tight, too- in that horrid way that you’ve never really had a definition for. All you know is that sometimes, you really wish the Dreemurr’s would let you break things. Throw a pot against a wall, or...give you a knife.

Something. You don’t know.

“Chara?”

Slowly, you slide out of bed. It’s entirely undignified, crawling across the floor; but you never know which one of you might have left something sprawled out across the ground in such a way as to trip you up now. Besides, he’s the only one who knows what you’re doing, and he wouldn’t judge you.

He never does.

“...Chara?” You don’t know why you thought coming closer would make this easier. Your hand smooths up and down the edge of his bed, and you jump the moment his own finds it. You have a rule, actually; if it’s dark, then he’s not allowed to touch you at all.

You’ve never told him why, and he’s never asked. Sometimes, you think that maybe he’s just as aware as you are that sneaking up on you might be the last thing he ever does.

He’s so much  _ weaker _ than you are, ha ha.

It’s not funny. It’s just so terrifying that you can’t help letting loose a little giggle, consciously ignoring the strained edge in your own voice.

“Hey Ree, do you know what suicide means?”

You take the way his hand remains lax about your own as a no, and almost immediately, your mind is filled with a hundred new ways to say  _ just because I want to die doesn’t mean I want to leave you. _

None of them sound right.


	8. Dec 16 - Incomplete - Premise - Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So there’s a quick premise first that I never actually followed up on, then an incomplete oneshot with a title I absolutely would have wanted to change, had I kept on writing it. Since it’s incomplete, there’s no point in changing it now.
> 
> It was pretty cool to look back on this and realize I reused a joke from it in **Liminal Space** , though. Some things stand the test of time.

* * *

**Title:** idk

**Rating:** idk

**Summary:** You’re looking for a friend. You’re looking for someone who supports you, for someone who goes out of their way for you, from time to time. Maybe, just maybe, you’re also looking for a father-figure; something rare and amazing that seems like it only exists within the pages of a fairytale.

* * *

**It was one of those times you feel a sense of loss, even though you didn’t have something in the first place. I guess that’s what disappointment is- a sense of loss for something you never had.**

* * *

_ This was going to be a vent-fic based on a maladaptive relationship between Frisk and Sans; one where Frisk is impressing onto Sans their own ideals of what a father figure should be, and coming out of the situation sorely neglected. Eventually, as they grow up, they begin to see Sans for what he is; not even remotely a father figure, but a man who’s barely holding onto basically anything, has zero ability to cope, and will always need from them what he himself is incapable of giving back in turn. Support. _

_ There was going to be some alcoholism involved, as well as a string of badly handled mental health scenarios, spanning from when Frisk is ten to their late teens or early twenties. There was also going to be a heavy focus on Frisk’s inability to ask for help and the ensuing frustrations that came of it, too, as well as how they didn’t really overcome it due using Sans as a figurehead. _

#####  _ Needless to say, it wasn’t meant to be a very positive work. _

* * *

**ANGEL**

**Prompt:** **When people think about angels, they think about golden locks, white wings and fluffy clouds under their innocent white dresses.**

**But even though there are angels with blond hair and white wings they definitely have better things to do than sitting on a cloud and playing the harp all day.**

* * *

Perhaps people assume that, because you don’t talk, you just don’t have a lot to say. It’s a funny thing, to know that this is what you project to the rest of the world, when the voice in your head is quick to assure you (or- insult?) that it is most definitely not the case.

You have plenty to say. And with an imagination as full and wide as any child’s, you have plenty of things to dream, as well. Questions about the world; about the people around you, about life as a whole. It’s just more comfortable to keep those thoughts inside your own mind; back in a safe place where there is no judgement- or a little judgement, these days. Not the bad kind of judgement. Chara might not enjoy all of the things you have questions for, but they’ve yet to answer anything with silence.

Maybe it’s just because you’re the only one they can talk to. Loneliness overriding sense.

**It is most certainly not that.**

You grin in spite of yourself, rolling over and relishing in the way fleece sheets tangle between your legs. Tonight is chilly, but within the cocoon of your blankets, the only part of you that feels cold is your nose. The clock on your bedside table says it’s quarter to ten, and you know you’re going to lose track of it in the next hour. Because you’ve fallen asleep, because you’ve found a topic that interests you both. Because one topic leads right into the next, chewing up the midnight oil as two kids curl up in a messy bed, and discuss- nonsense, as Chara would call it.

It’s not all nonsense. Sometimes.

**Of course it isn’t.** You listen to their dry commentary, slowly flexing your toes- warm. They’re warm, too. It’s almost a miracle, because you constantly have very cold feet. The voice in your head says it’s due to the way you walk; balancing on your toes and winding your way through life like you’re stepping on eggshells. They’ve never asked why you do it; you don’t think they have to.

They appreciate the need for silence- softly, softly. Softer still. It wouldn’t do to call attention to yourself.

People seem to like giving you their attention well enough anyway, these days.

**The interview with Mettaton isn’t for another three days; you can’t already be worrying about it.** Their voice, the only part of them you’ve ever really had, takes on a slight edge of impatience; one that perhaps you could’ve missed, if you’d ever had more of them. Knowing a voice better than you know the back of your hands has some benefits to it, you find, and you don’t mind those benefits at all.

It’s the difference between feeling assured that they aren’t really all that irritated with you, and the ever impulsive urge to apologize- for making them feel bad, of course.

“I can be nervous if I want to be.” Your voice comes out hushed; partially due to the fact that you’re whispering, partially from lack of use. You dislike the way it sounds when you’re louder- when it cracks and grates like nails against a chalkboard. Even if it makes it easier to tell where Chara starts and you end, you’re not particularly hardpressed to improve your speech making capabilities.

**And here I had always assumed nerves were a compulsive, involuntary reaction to stimulus,** Chara intones, droll. Always droll; like their humor. Dry, dry dry. In comparison to the icy crackle of your own whispers, it’s like listening to leaves crunch on a particularly pleasant, autumn day.  **And don’t start- flattery will get you nowhere. I would have thought these monthly interviews had become the norm, by now.**

“They have.”

**And you’re still worrying?**

“I thought you said nerves were a compulsive, involuntary reaction to stimulus.” As is customary, when all your attention is concentrated on them, you almost think you feel someone shift beside you. Because you used their own words against them, and they never expect that, even when you’ve done it a million times over.

**I might have said something vaguely similar.** They admit grudgingly, and you let the soft hiccups of your laughter dance across the empty space of your room.

“You just said it. Exactly like that.”

**Pics or it didn’t happen.** Huffing under your breath, you pull your arms out from under the covers, twisting round as your fingers shape a lopsided square. And you pretend, as your pointer finger squeezes down on the ‘shutter’, that you can see the exact moment the picture was taken. Another child reclining in the space between you and the wall, struggling to continue frowning, the slightest hint of an upwards curve to the corner of their lips.

Of course, Chara wouldn’t really sleep on the bed with you. On bad nights, on the really, really bad ones- when they can’t take it anymore, and both of you look out at the shadowy shapes of your bookshelf and your lamp and your closet, you cave to their burning, aching need, and the two of you succumb to their need to crawl under the bed, shuffling back until your back is up against the wall and the only way anything can get to you is if it reaches in, if it makes itself vulnerable first.

(as one, always as one, because Chara can’t handle being the only one in control anymore, always freezes up. Tells you in a panicked voice that they can’t do it, they can’t do this again, they’ll lose you-)

(Confusing. It’s confusing. Because they’ve never lost you before, but when you tell them that, it’s like Chara doesn’t believe it. And then the panic gets worse.)

  
  



	9. Dec 16 - Incomplete - "Adopting Gremlins"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work never had anything but the working title “Adopting Gremlins”, and was based on an idea from someone I had a warm acquaintance with. 
> 
> Essentially, Frisk was an absolute goblin of a child who would’ve been perfectly fine wrecking havoc, if only the voice in their head hadn’t eventually bugged them to be good. They hightail it out of there the second the barrier is down. 
> 
> In the meantime, Sans was happy to see the tail end of them- until he finds them half starved under a park bench, six months later. It was the exact sort of premise that let me play with my “morbidly humorous” Sans POV that I was super into using up to that point- I don’t think I wrote another piece from his POV after this.

* * *

**Title:** I have no bloody idea.

**Rating:** boy fucking howdy!

**Tags: frisk, sans, chara, toriel, asgore,** implied/referenced child abuse, homelessness, aborted no mercy, post-pacifist end, asshole pacifist in a manner of speaking, mute Frisk, Frisk is a gremlin, Sans maintains hashtag relatable status, house rules say eventual happy ending, platonic Sans and Toriel,

**Summary:** If he was going to call Frisk anything, gremlin would be the most appropriate term. An angry, hissing little gremlin; the type of thing you didn’t feed after midnight. The only fuel that kid ran on was spite- and, possibly, fingers.

Sans never wanted to see them again. And boy, is he still wishing he hadn’t.

* * *

**Well, I'd say fuck too, if I were me. I'd say it backward and forward and around the block, fuck this and fuck that and fuc-**

* * *

For the majority of monsters who’d watched the Barrier go from concept to reality, the day monsters were sealed Underground would be the last time they saw the sun. Historical records wouldn’t begin until a good hundred years later; the fear and despair felt during those early days lost, save for the impressions those monsters had left behind in the generation following, and the generation after that.

_ Fearful of further human attacks, the monsters retreated. _

The Underground wasn’t a setting monsters were expected to survive within. It was a tomb; someplace humans could stuff them all, could forget about the race they’d doomed. Where the potential (not even remotely potential) bloodshed could be averted, and ‘good’ men no longer had to get dust on their clothing. S’hard, to try and imagine those times. Hard to imagine what it had been like, losing absolutely everything. Their homes, the sun. Their hope.

And it would’ve been nothing but a tomb, if not for that last generation born on the Surface. Without the monsters who lost the most, there wouldn’t’ve been a place to call Home, wouldn’t’ve been a Core, wouldn’t’ve been a fragile ecosystem, barely capable of sustaining the population bursting at its seams. Hell, the rate of monsters Falling Down had been bad enough in the last few years; what had the numbers looked like, back then?

S’probably not what he’s supposed to be thinking of, watching the king and queen unveil a monument to the fallen humans. Innocent lives sacrificed- needlessly, as it turned out- for a war no one really wanted. The burden of a king who’d lost his kids, foisted back onto his people, and titled “ _ hope _ ”.

Too harsh?

Eh, he’s not judging. But really, there’s something to be said, watching the proceedings play out. Knowing monsters have spent the last month organizing what’s to come; the nearby field beset by stalls and rides, a festivity to rival any human celebration. Some good food, good friends. Bad laughs.

The crowd surrounding the monument itself is almost an even mixture of humans and monsters; whodathunkit? Monsters, humans. Standing together at the edge of Mt Ebott, to honor and celebrate the lives of human children lost along the way. Meanwhile, Sans stands to the side, and thinks about the lives they haven’t honored yet at all.

It’s a work in progress. Thing is, days like these are necessary. Whether they’re on the Surface or in the Underground, people needed things to keep ‘em going. Something to celebrate. Something to look forward to.

Something to bring them hope. It’s not necessary, but Sans exhales anyway, air whistling through his teeth like a deflating balloon. Hope. That’s a good one.

No one ever got steered wrong by a little bit of hope.

The address itself takes a good hour. Asgore speaks, a human official speaks, then Toriel. The theme of all their speeches are the same; that in honoring these children, they seek to provide the kind of unity that never sees such sacrifices becoming necessary again. The moment it’s over, he slips through the crowd- slips behind a tall, heavyset human, and takes up a place at the edge of the stage. The king and queen are in the midst of a hushed conversation, neither noticing him during their descent. All the better, when Asgore finally takes stock of his presence, letting out a loud rumble of surprise. Sans’ grin can’t get any wider, but it’s the thought that counts.

“Tori, Gori,” He flaps his hand at the both of them. It counts as a bow, probably. “How’s the weather up there?”

“Sunny, of course!” Asgore booms- before giving the queen a slightly sheepish look, lowering his voice substantially. “With a slight chance of frost.”

“Should you continue to address me in such a manner, I can guarantee an afternoon storm.” Is Toriel’s retort. They’re both joking, of course. ‘Cept they also aren’t. The line between is awkwardly thin, and one he’s been squeezed into far too often, these past six months.

Asgore’s a good enough sort to laugh at it, at least, no matter how half-heartedly. Tori’s not the kind of woman you want mad at you.

“Woof. Well, sun’s out now, so I figure we can all just  _ chill,  _ for a bit.” He lets an eye socket drift shut, and though both monarchs look a bit stiff, he still gets a bit of a chuckle. It’s better than it could be, considering why they’re all here. Considering how it was when they first got out, and the pure ice Asgore’s presence had earned.

Half a year is a good amount of time, to remember how to work together. Even queens don’t have time for deep set grudges, not when a whole kingdom relied on her keeping the peace.

“It seems the festivities are already underway; Toriel, will you be joining the guard- and myself?” It’s also enough time for kings to stop stumbling over nicknames they don’t have the right to use anymore, so hey. Progress takes two.

“I will be there shortly. Please, go on- the public is waiting for you.” She nods her head, cutting off any protest before it comes. Asgore, ever duty bound, acquiesces all too easily, politely asking her not to take too long before taking his leave.

The moment his back is turned, Toriel makes a face. It’s the most un-queenly thing she can do, right now.

“Whilst I have no reservations in serving my people, this day will prove tedious.” She looks down at him, expression warming. “Will you be joining us, my friend?”

“You mean...walk? Nah. Figured I’d stick back, watch the romance blossom.” She lets out a snort, hardly noticing when Sans sidesteps a playful swipe at the back of his skull. “He’s all yours, Tor’. Tell Paps a couple of jokes, if it gets too slow.”

The newest member of the Royal Guard (for show, mostly, since humans and armies seemed to be a Thing, these days) would appreciate it. From the smile on her face, Tori knows this, as well.

But she’s not stalling so Sans can tell her how to do a job she’s had for thousands of years, is she?

“Lotta humans decided to show up, huh?” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Sans eyes off the crowds. Most of it’s beginning to gravitate towards the fairgrounds, though a good dozen reporters had set themselves up in front of the stage, photographers ducking into the gaps between cameramen, trying to angle up the perfect shot. “S’good. Interrelations, all that. Starting to feel like a real community, round here.”

“Yes. It is more support than we could have hoped for.” She agrees, but it’s distracted. She’s looking out at the crowd as well- just a little lower than he is. Knee height.

“I haven’t seen them, Tori.” He tries to make it sound gentle, like he’s sorry. And he is, a little. He’s sorry she’s disappointed. But mostly, he’s not. He’s not disappointed at all. “It’s hard to tell, with all the people- but standing around all day, waiting for ‘em? It’s not gonna make them come.”

Sans opts to keep his eyes where they are. On a bunch of strangers, rather than a person he cares about. Doesn’t want to watch her shoulders droop; doesn’t want to see the way her eyes mist over, even if he knows- she wouldn’t cry in public.

“I had hoped that, perhaps…” She trails off, and yeah, he knows. She hoped a lot of things.

There’s a couple monsters mingling with the media, now. Trying to grab a few memories of their own; trying to get on TV. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

Truth of it is, they’d made it pretty damn clear they weren’t coming back. Couldn’t have asked for a better outcome, since he can’t say he was sorry to see ‘em go. Can’t say anyone else was, either, ‘cept for Tori.

“You’ll keep watch for them, will you not? And let them know if they have come; they are welcome here.”

So- lie, in other words. Lie, as if there’s the slightest chance they’d show their face round here. Which they won’t. They’ve had a good six months to be found, if that’s what they’d wanted.

“Sure, Tori. I’ll keep an eye socket out for ya. Got a catch, though.” Now he looks at her; watching the smile that blooms across her face as the reality of the matter is waved under the rug, left alone for another day. “7pm, Grillbys. Good food, good friends. Shit laughs. Think your royal duties’ll let you come out and play?”

“Change your timing to eight, and we have a deal, my friend,” Toriel promises solemnly, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that promises nothing but trouble. It’s fantastic. “For now, my royal duties call.”

“Your public awaits, your majesty. Get outta here.” 

One, final snort of laughter- the infectious sort, that steals a few chuckles out of him in turn- and Tori bids him farewell, walking calmly towards the festivities. Now and again, he sees her head dip; greeting anyone who wishes to gain her attention, anyone brave enough to approach. Regal, refined- a whole bunch of ‘r’ words that go hand in hand with ‘r’oyalty. Once again, Tori ticks every box.

But he’d bet his cranium that she’s still gonna get rip roaring drunk tonight, because that’s what friends do. Mutually drown their sorrows in a cup of Grillby’s finest, until someone (Tori) starts tossing ketchup soaked chips at everyone, and they get cut off. As is her inebriated wont.

It’s gonna be great. How a guy like him makes good with the queen of all monsters is anyone’s guess, but- heh. It’s pretty awesome, all the same. Can’t say he’s been the best friend in turn, but what she doesn’t know can’t kill her.

Again.

The next time his gaze drifts across the crowd, Sans finds himself looking a little lower. About knee height. 

He ain’t gonna see them anywhere.

They’re not coming back.

Good riddance. A bunch of kids- actual, totally innocent kids- rush past the stage, yelling and laughing and shoving each other, as kids do. He ducks behind the platform to avoid them, and never comes back out. So long as he ducks back in a couple times, nobody’s gotta be any wiser. Tori doesn’t have to know his word is about as good as his looks.

The thing is, he can’t say he wants anything to do with celebrating fallen children.

* * *

At the start of it all, monsters didn’t exactly have the resources for festivals.

They didn’t exactly have the resources to survive, point blank. Another frustrating gap in history- one that could be filled, if someone took the time to ask the king and queen. Even Gerson, who’s been around longer than Sans wants to think about, and’ll prolly be around longer still. Even so, it’s not hard to figure that the Underground didn’t have much to celebrate, back then. It never really had much cause to celebrate. In its documented history, there’s only two occasions to look back on. When the prince was born; a big deal in of itself.

And the coronation of the first fallen human, welcomed into the royal family with open hearts and open arms. Lot of documentation, on that one. A lot of hope, resting on one human’s frail shoulders. Quickly ailing shoulders. Dead too soon, shoulders.

A lot of documentation out there about that, too.

Still, monsters had to have  _ something,  _ before all that. Before the crown prince died. Before Asgore declared war. Heck, before humans forgot about ‘em enough to let their kids fall into their man-made cage at all.

If there was going to be hope, back then, it had to start out small. Couldn’t be something that took up a lot of resources; nothing fancy, just...something, to hold onto. Belief in a future that wasn’t so dire, where monsters could walk freely on the Surface, and the Underground went empty.

A prophecy, maybe. Something that survived by word alone, vague enough to last through the ages, and become something of a faith, a belief system all of its own. The Angel from the Surface.

What they got in the end was hardly an angel. Not even close. It’d be too ironic to call it a demon, plus it holds that whole “fallen angel” idea anyways, so nah. Nah.

If Sans was to call Frisk anything at all, gremlin would probably be the token pet name. An angry, hissing little gremlin; the type of thing you didn’t feed after midnight. The only fuel that kid ran on was spite- and fingers, maybe.

He has vague memories of the first time he met ‘em. First time he  _ really  _ met ‘em. Turn around and shake my hand, have a bit of a laugh at their expense. No harm to it, really. Just somethin’ to break the ice, help them get their bearings in how the Underground worked.

Which is funny, cause they sure were keen to bite right back. Which is precisely where their first- outing, he’ll call it, ended. For him. Seeing as he was dead, and all.

If nothing else, he could say they got a real  _ biting _ sense of humor, heh.

They don’t.

Hell if he doesn’t know they don’t, ‘cause they sure as hell made that apparent, every dusty step of the way. He still finds himself absently scratching at his eye sockets, most days. Trying to pry out the bits and pieces of people he’d known, settled into the crevices in his face.

The only thing he’s grateful for, at this point, is that he’ll never outright know for sure, what happened behind that door. To the lady with a sense of humor and the kind of integrity he couldn’t say no to, and the type of heart that was way too open to a child with matted hair and  _ really fucking sharp teeth. _

That kid cleaved their way through the Underground more times than anyone will ever know. More than he’ll ever know. Until one day, they just kinda stopped.

Was it boredom, maybe? Were they just sick of cutting down the same people, over and over again? He doesn’t know. Never bothered to ask, treating this sudden attempt at peace with all the care a human might give a pack of wolves. Peace probably isn’t even the word for it, really. They hissed, he kept his distance. Some monsters didn’t, they hissed some more.

But they didn’t kill anyone. Not a SOUL, and somehow, that kid managed to get them all out of the Underground. How isn’t even the question, there.  _ Why,  _ when they made it pretty damn clear they hated every single creature within a good thirty feet of them, that’s the question. Sans doesn’t care if it ain’t answered.

Last anyone saw of them, they’d scampered off into the woods like some kind of man beast, and- he doesn’t know. Curled up somewhere quiet to die, hopefully. Met some kind of unfortunate end. Attempts to find them again have been halfhearted, at best. He’s pretty sure he’s the only one halfheartedly trying, at this point; and it’s not actually trying, really. It’s saying he will, right before he doesn’t. 

The world is a better place with them out of the picture. 


	10. Jan 17 - Incomplete - Soggy Noodles

* * *

**Title:** Soggy Noodles

**Rating:** eh

**Tags: Sans, Alphys,** How to draw alphys- draw a circle, add anxiety, mental health, bros being bros being crippled by mental health issues being uh, bros?, they both a batch of soggy noodles

**Summary:** words go here. They look somewhat intelligent

* * *

A quote goes here. Probably also somewhat intelligent. Profound, even!

* * *

  
  


Meeting Sans is one of those coincidental things that just kind of, happens.

Not that she hasn’t heard  _ of him _ before, no no! The Underground is a small enough place that interests become niche, and the people who share those interests are bound to come across each other, at least once or twice. She thinks (she might be wrong, or...well, she’s probably wrong, but even then!) that he may have been in attendance at a few of the same lectures she’d been to, knows his name dots the i’s and crosses the t’s when it comes to forming symbiotic interrelationships between monarchy and lab work, but he’s kind of

Not. Not what she expected, really.

If anime has taught her anything about the field of science, it’s that there’s a level of sterilization to it. A cleanliness that’s conveyed through clean white lab coats and cream walls, gleaming tiles with board light fixtures up above. And when she carts her seventeen boxes of worldly belongings into the(her. HER.) lab for the very first time, it’s pretty close to what she’s always imagined. Well, there’s no...sexy lab assistant, and Asgore buys her a teacup, but he’s not precisely sweeping her off her feet (NOT THAT SHE WAS EXPECTING THAT BUT AGIRLCANDREAMCAN’TSHE). Still, it is! Clean! And that’s absolutely the most important thing!

[time stamp] so i know ur probly sleeping now but we were going to watch anime six hours ago and i thought maybe you’d want to know that! ^.^

Wow.

Wow, no. She can’t send that, it’s too… it’s passive aggressive, he’ll think she’s more angry at him than she actually is. Not that she is! Angry! Or anything! It’s just.

It’s been six hours.

But he’s probably sleeping.

* * *

**Inspiration:**

**Chara Yes.** an hour ago  
OR WHAT ABOUT LIKE. i know that everyone's idea that sans and alphys are bffs is very largely just headcanon but what about heck-ups where sans is Too Depression to answer texts for like three days but alphys is So Anxiety she's sending him a billion and thinking "he's not answering HE HATES ME i'm so annoying i'm such a burden"

**CHARA STOP** an hour ago  
OK BUT: THEIR ENTIRE RELATIONSHIP

**Chara Yes.** an hour ago  
friends that have to meet in the middle because friendship takes work and Being A Support System does too and then making up over like... alternating anime OVAs and really painfully bad dubs of kung-fu flicks and like ancient 70s anime

**CHARA STOP** an hour ago  
a lot of the way I have alphys' rp backstory set up is that she and sans like... know each other, and were a lot closer when the g man was around, and do hang out but

**CHARA STOP** an hour ago  
there are just lapses and periods where they don't speak because sans forgets to text back and alphys sends like 7 and thinks "HAHA OKAY HE HATES ME" and buries her phone in the earth for a week

**CHARA STOP** an hour ago  
until eventually she runs into him out at the dump or he happens to be in hotland at his stand or WHATEVER and they make some sort of plans but they go through pretty long periods of not talking because their mental illnesses go to bat

**Chara Yes.** an hour ago  
the thing is that it totally makes sense that like... there'd be that kind of incompatibility interrupting their friendship  
**Chara Yes.** an hour ago  
like sans is the avoidant kind of depression where you never tell anyone anything and don't check your mail for two weeks and your email is overflowing but you just like. come home and don't get out of bed or do anything

**CHARA STOP** an hour ago  
like god help them they're  _ trying _ but they always have these... fits and starts


	11. Mar 17 - Incomplete - They Threw Me Into the Bloodstained Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incomplete oneshot. I think the intention of this was to explore Asriel’s characterization- either so I could continue my other work from his POV, or for rp things? It makes for a short chapter, but it really doesn’t fit with anything moving forward.

**Prompt: They threw me into the bloodstained sea**

* * *

Their response to other people had always been to hide, though they did it in a lot of different ways. Sometimes he thought other people could tell when their smile went from genuine to plastic; it was never just in their face, or at least, Asriel didn’t think so. It was in their posture straightening, and their fingers laced together behind their back. Or were held against their sides- so, so still, that anyone meeting them for the first time might’ve gotten confused, and thought they didn’t move at all.

The other times they chose to hide were obvious. Those points where they tried to cram their body into the smallest space possible, like they could disappear. Under the bed in the middle of the night, even though he was the only person in the room with them. Or the times when they were at the dinner table, and something banged outside, and mom would spend twenty minutes talking them out from under the table. Yeah- sometimes it was real obvious, when Chara tried to hide.

He didn’t always get it, but that was okay, he thought. He might not get it, but that wasn’t going to stop him from joining them under the table, or being a little louder, so that Chara’s attention came back to him, and their smile a little less fixed.He could draw with them, or sit at the end of the bed and read a storybook out loud. He could still be there, when they were hiding away. He could still be the one who helped them come back out.

But he didn’t always get it. He got that people made them nervous, and he got, to a certain extent, that the reason for that was the same reason why they’d climbed the mountain. But he’d never- haha. He’d never thought that he didn’t actually get it, before.

Until he was right there with them, and suddenly it all made sense.

It’s one of the last things he remembers feeling. And it’s not just fear, no. It’s not fear of the world, it’s not a frozen ice block in their chest that has them withdrawing, so much. They are scared, and he knew that. He knew they were scared, just like he knew when their smiles weren’t real and their paranoia was playing up to distraction.

He’d never known the unadulterated  **_fury_ ** that blazed behind it all.


	12. April 17 - Incomplete - Untitled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incomplete multishot- one that would’ve been pretty long if I’d followed all my ideas for it. This piece still has my brainstorming attached, because it’s nice to have an example of that which won’t spoil a fic I could come back to.

* * *

**Title:** idk yet!   
**Rating:** at least M

**Tags: Sans, Frisk, Chara, Flowey** , Everyone Lives(?) AU, flowerpot Flowey, implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced suicide, self harm, aborted No Mercy, Sans is often hashtag relatable, dark humor,

**Summary:** Snoos babysits the kids now and again because I fuckin said so let me have my “and then sans realized that in doing nothing he had severely fucked these children over” time in peace.

Also everyone knows the kids better than him which he learns by the artful use of the “called for help” option.

* * *

Quote goes here.

* * *

Monsters as a species are social creatures, for the most part. There were introverts, sure; but even those ones had their family. No monsters would ever be truly alone, unless they really tried for it. Unless they went down the same route as Toriel, shutting herself away from the Underground.

‘Cept she’d eventually found Sans. And before her, hell, even now, he’s got Papyrus.

Family’s key. Family, Sans found, seemed to be this inherently structured expectation, for humans. The uh, the “Nuclear Family”, or whatever. Mom, dad, the two point five kids and the family gerbil. Pretty hard to see the appeal, if you asked him. Far as he could tell, human families often had some things they needed to sort out. Common decency, for one. Not letting their kids run up the mountain, for another. Pretty obvious, that one. Pretty standard Kind of a doozy, as far as repercussions go.

Three such repercussions were currently dotted about Toriel’s lounge room, each doing their own thing, whilst he watches ‘em from the kitchen doorway. He’s got family, to blame for that. The type of family that involves Royal Guards, queens with a great sense of humor, and one repercussion in the form of a ten year old, currently hogging the remote control and more than half of the couch. They’re watching- you know. Whatever. Frisk likes cartoons. S’good for them.

Repercussions two and three don’t seem to be sharing that benefit.. The flower pot set on the the floor had been purposefully positioned close to the window, but rather than a sun thing, he’s pretty sure it’s just that the flower likes glowering at things. The alternative is listening to it talk though, so- he’ll take potentially insulted neighbours for 200, Jim.

And the third one.

The third one’s a problem. Humans- even Frisk; can’t exclude them from this- are always a tangle of problems, but even problems sometimes, uh, do stuff? Get bored? Ten year olds in particular- or eleven, or twelve, heck if he knows; they don’t just sit there doing nothing. Hands folded neatly across their lap, back ramrod straight. They’ve literally been doing nothing, for a good hour. He can’t even pretend they’re looking at the TV. Not when their heads turned, eyes beaming right into the side of his skull.

He’s not even sure if they’re blinking, honestly. Still be kind of cool if they’d just- move. Or emote, in some fashion. Just interact, generally, with whatever’s about them, in whatever usual way they do.

Hell if he knows.

It’s been six months. There’s a good heaping of things to be sorted out, before monsters gain the right to intermingle with humans in a variety of ways; working with ‘em, for example. Living within a ten mile radius of each other, for another. It’s all well and good to declare a human to be in the position of negotiating for those rights, but when that human’s barely pushing double digits (and the status of their guardianship under heavy debate) they’re better off out of that spotlight.

Upon minimal reflection, Fluffybuns was starting to trend into a series of pretty bad choices; must be a longstanding character flaw, if his undead, adoptive child spoke to a homicidal flower more often than him.

Not that he’s been much involved with that. The moment one kid abruptly and mysteriously (and without explanation, to this day) turned into the Nuclear 2.5, Sans’d made the calm and rational decision to stay out of it. Period.

Papyrus had called said decision  _ childish.  _ Probably the best week of his life.

All kidding aside, this stuff, right here- these kids. They aren’t his problem. He had a brother to look out for, a whole Surface to worry about. Linearity and the previous lack of to lose sleep over. The whole Nuclear Fam scenario was for Tori and Gori to deal with; the two people who wanted it, not the guy who didn’t. Guys who barely remember to get up every few days don’t make much of a parental unit.

‘Cept, the thing is… he owes at least one of these kids his time, whether they ask for it or not. Frisk’s not a loud kid, but they’re a funny one- it’s as easy to drag them into a prank as it is to sit on the roof and stargaze with ‘em. And their mom? Who’da thought a guy like him had been rubbing elbows with royalty; still is. She’s busier, these days, but she’s good for a late night cup o’ joe, now and again. Humor’s pretty terrible. It’s pretty great.

Past them, the reasons to be involved just kept stacking up. Papyrus electing to take up position as Captain of the Royal Guard. Undyne’s sometimes odd moods, after she’d taken up post as Frisk and Chara’s personal bodyguard (angrier, these days. A whole lot angrier). Alphys’. Well. She’s got enough happening, but her and the flower have some history. Anyone with ears would know it.

Again and again, he keeps being involved in shit. Not seeking it out- never seeking it out- but involved all the same. Around about the fifth time Asgore elected to host a meeting at their place, around about the fifth time someone elected to ask his opinion (like he’s s’posed to know something, about human legislation on ethical funerary rites. Like he’d know what goes on in declaring monsters as their own, independent sovereignty) it all clicked into place. It’s just the monster way of things.

When people give a shit, your opinion matters. When you’re family, their problems become yours, as well.

That includes the kids. That includes the weed. And when push starts coming to shove, when the king and Tori gotta spend more time jet setting to various human capitals than their own homes- when there’s no one else, with the kids at home. No one there to keep ‘em rooted.

It stops being not his problem.

Can wish it wasn’t, letting his gaze drift lazily about the room. Pretend he can’t see Chara watching him. Pretend the flower didn’t start hissing at a kid riding past on a skateboard, or that it’s five pm and Tori’s asked him to try and keep the kids to a routine, which means dinner at six.

He’s it, for tonight. And probably whenever else the need for last resorts arose; when Undyne and Papyrus were needed with their highnesses, and Alphys was uh- yeah, nah. She’s better off in her lab. He’s it. Feed ‘em, make sure they sleep. Take ‘em to school tomorrow. No promises that any of it’s gonna happen, but it’s on him.

It’s gonna be a little on Chara too, if the kid doesn’t stop beading in on him like some imminent threat to their personal space. No wonder Undyne’s all pissy, these days.

“Ok, kiddos,” Rapping his knuckles against the wall, he watches as two more sets of eyes come to rest on him. Flowey does the full 360 turn, straight outta that one- what was it? With the green projectiles and the wooden stick that powered god. Kudos to him; loses its effect when he don’t really have a neck. Not the most welcoming of looks (though in Frisk’s defence, it takes a bit to break their poker face. A bit and a bit more. Bit more than that). “Got some  _ food  _ for thought; might not wanna  _ take away  _ much from it, but-”

“Your cooking is worse than your brothers? I know.” Flowey sneers. And gee, ain’t statements like that insulting, coming from a pot plant? Not much of a botanist, here, but Sans is pretty aware of what that pot is full of. “You couldn’t pay me to eat anything you come up with.”

“Heh. Same.” He shrugs, smile widening slightly as Flowey’s own drops into a scowl. “But dinner can still be a  _ pizza  _ cake.”

He says pizza, mostly ‘cause he knows Frisk likes it, well enough. Bonus points on topping variety, to keep the other two happy. 

“Pathetic.” The sneer returns, and that’s about as far as Flowey seems willing to go- pizza enthusiast? Or maybe it’s the way one of Frisk’s hands goes over the side of the couch, obscured from his vision, but from the short, sharp jerks of their shoulder, he doubts they’re saying much polite. He pretends not to see that much.

Probably not good to rely on them making him pipe down. He remembers what that thing did to ‘em, even if no one else wants to.

Wasn’t that long ago. No one likes to think about that part, either.

“It’s pronounced pizza, but ok.” Moving right along. He winks at Frisk, entirely unsurprised when they shoot him an enthusiastic thumbs up. They’re totally cool with it, obviously. Cool as a cucumber. So, then- “What about you, kid?”

He meets Chara’s eyes, for a moment.

S’funny, the things a person realises, sometimes. The more obvious it is, the less it’s noticed. Funnier still, ‘cause he’s usually pretty good at picking things up. Pretty aware that Frisk’s mood can change at the slightest hint of a cross word. Knows without having to ask that they give a pretty big damn for one mess of a flower and an even messier undead kid they’d seen fit to drag out into the sunlight.

So how does a guy like him miss the fact that he’s never locked eyes with the only surviving inheritor of the crown, before? ‘Cause there’s no way he has. Would’a remembered.

No going back on the way they don’t even budge, eerily still from their head to their toes. Thought they were still before, now, it’s like they just froze in time. Rock solid.

Except for their lips. ‘Cept for the smile that slowly grows, stretching out across their cheeks, until it’s not even a smile, anymore. Hell, it’s-

Sans’ lets his eyelights drift up to the ceiling, after a moment. Keeps it casual as he shrugs, slouches; ignores the instinct to get right the hell outta dodge. Who decided he was good babysitting material, again?

Right. No one.

“Gonna take that as a yes. So what’re we thinkin’- Hawaiian for you, boss?” A cheerful  _ mm _ from the couch, more than answer enough. “What else are we lookin’ at?”

Fertilizer? The SOULs of the innocent? 

Pretty sure neither option would go down well. It’s a tough crowd.

Frisk kneels up from behind Chara, shooting at him with their fingers. S’cute. “Veggie. Q’ chicken.”

“S’that short for BBQ chicken?”

“Yep.”

“Gotcha, boss.” He doesn’t hear any protests, so that’s what they’re getting. “Think I’ll have a  _ pizza  _ that, myself.”

He can hear Flowey muttering under his breath, but hey. Not his problem. An easy wave and he’s using the wall to roll back into the kitchen, slowly shutting his eye sockets and staying in place, for a minute. Or five.

Just gotta recharge, for a second. From the seemingly near death experience that is dealing with these kids, and their pet flower.

Half an hour later, he’s listening to pineapple discourse, instead.

“That’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.” Spat over the dinner table, Flowey’s eyes are narrowed at the apparently offensive chunks of yellow topping decorating the plate in front of Frisk. Maybe it’s just a ten year old thing, but it’s interesting in its own right, watching them pluck every piece of topping from the dough and tomato paste, munching down on that alone, before following it up with- everything else. Could just be playing; could be a joke. S’long as they’re eating everything, Sans ain’t gonna stop ‘em.

Flowey’s remarks don’t seem to phase them at all. Finishing in their endeavor to pick off every little bit of topping on their slice, they slowly put the slice of cooked dough down, fingers grasping at a tiny scoop of cheese, ham and pineapple-

Right before they pop it into their mouth, staring the flower down with a poker face that’d make a professional player proud. A huff of amusement is hidden behind Sans’ ketchup bottle.

The two of them do a good enough job entertaining themselves, looks like. Can’t say he’d call it pleasant, most of the time, but the kid responds to barbs and slanders with ease, water rolling off a duck’s back. 

Can’t really tell if Chara’s looking on as well, or just kind of- there, for lack of anything else they could be. Interesting, watching the way they work. Or not watching it. Can’t keep an eye socket on them the whole time.

So he gets to witness the way their food seems to disappear in increments; catches their hands disappearing back under the table, once or twice. A swallow. 

Real life of the party, that kid.

Or are they just giving him the silent treatment?

**Insert a boring moment as Birb looks at what needs to be rewritten/put elsewhere**

* * *

  
  


  * Doooo I want to make this episodic over a series of weeks? Absolutely. Maybe change a few things.



**Okay yes what I’m looking to do:**

    * Use Undyne for foreshadowing. She discusses the way the kids breakdown, how they respond when the other isn’t okay- “erratic, Comes out of nowhere”
    * Chara and Flowey seem to go from kind of just being around each other because they’re always around Frisk to vicious potshots at each other
    * Sans doesn’t hear Chara speak when he’s in the room for a good while
    * The struggles with actual fucking children? They don’t clean up after themselves, Frisk doesn’t like having to bathe, Chara spends like, ten hours in the bathroom at a time; also they refuse to get up in the morning. Sometimes does really self-sufficient things that care for Frisk, Flowey and themself whilst giving him the good ol’ morally superior looks.
    * Flowey is - Flowey. There’s hints and aspects and surprise for Sans. Flowey actually has to have check ups with Alphys, which he never knew about. The why of it seems to be this big secret that leaves all three kids in really sour moods.
    * Desperate calls to mom over really ridiculous things; these are the ‘breathe and have a laugh’ spots. Sans Undertale asking Toriel what a roll up is and why Frisk insisted on taking the entire box to school today. Also he has no idea what happened with the washing because he certainly didn’t do it but Chara went back to bed today because their sports uniform turned pink. Good ol’ haha fuck domestication development shenanigans
    * Asgore getting to come back for a day; how bad his relationship with Chara really is. Surprise for Sans? Their relationship is just as bad with Toriel.
    * How do I cram some Paps in here I feel like I should and also that it should be a moment of “wow my brother gets along with all of them how the fuck _teach me your ways????_ ”



  * **That Thing Happens. (edit, 5/12/19: I have no recollection of what That Thing is, but it sounds fun?)**



**BONUS IDEAS:**

  * **Alphys is secretly a fucking badass? Naturally a fucking badass? Stands up for the kids against Sans, especially for Flowey.**



      * “I know you snoop around my labs, Sans. J-just because I let you do it, doesn’t mean I don’t- that there’s- you’ve never found anything I w-wouldn’t want you to see before.”  
“You sound pretty sure of that.”  
“Oh, I am. You might- hide, how smart you are, but you forget. I-I’m an inventor at heart.”
      * Really fucking protective of Flowey, which surprises Sans because it seems like he hates her? Which, she says, he does.



  * **Undyne is Chara’s favorite person. No really Undyne is Chara’s favorite.**



      * Like goddamn goddamn she comes back and is like, ruffling their hair, and there’s chara fuckin
      * Poised on the stairs with a knife
      * And Sans almost dusts himself on the spot until Undyne’s literally just slinging them over her shoulder and Chara’s bemoaning their death throes to the universe.



  * **Frisk treats Asgore and Toriel better than anyone.**



      * In fact, their relationship with Chara and Flowey is at its tensest whenever the parental units enter the scene, either physically or via phone call. It’s about as close to snapping (or actually genuinely snapping) that Sans sees them.



  * **Papyrus gets along well enough with all the kids**



      * Frisk adores him, obvs.
      * Chara seems to tolerate him way more than anything and it’s amazing as far as Sans is concerned
      * Even Flowey is semi-decent to him what the fuck?
      * Papyrus is the uh...what’s the term. He gives the moral to it all. Initiates the moral of the story. (5/12/19: I’m surprised I had a moral for this story, but I’m assuming it’s something about those who do nothing do the greatest evils, rah rah).



  * **Sans and Flowey never really get to a point of getting along in the story**



      * Sans DOES NOT learn the truth about Flowey, he just gets some hints. Some slaps to the face for hints, sometimes, but just hints
      * The one thing he comes very close to understanding, at least, is Flowey’s SOULless status. 
      * At some point Sans starts treating him like as much of a kid as Chara and Frisk and wow his life gets easier imagine that



  * **Frisk is holding the fucking world on their shoulders and Sans damn well feels guilty for not keeping that in mind**



      * Night terrors. Oh yeah, night terrors.
      * The Thing. More foreshadowing based on a talk that happens after the talk with Undyne. “Would you ever-” “Only if-”
      * It becomes more and more obvious that Frisk is not only the glue keeping this whole fucking family together, but also the only one keeping [spoilers] (5/12: this is my own fucking plotting space WHOMST was I saving from spoilers)
      * They’re tired. Please, give them a hug.



  * **Chara is more than they seem which I mean lol big surprise to the audience, huge surprise to Sans**



    * He’s not getting further than “well the kid knows way more than they should” in regards to timeline and ghost shenanigans
    * A lot of their poise and stillness is literally just them panicking at any given second.
    * Chara is a bottle and when bottles fill with pressure they explode.
    * Significant abuse implications come into play during That Thing.
    * Sans’ insight into how little they trust everything around them becomes very, painfully clear.




	13. April 17 - Discarded Start - And Then, There's You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the alternate start to And Then There’s You- I didn’t like it, so I rewrote it entirely. It’s possible I saved a paragraph or two here and there. 
> 
> The entire story was inspired by me writing poetry, which was attempting to grasp something I still can’t put into words. I included it below, since it’s… significant to me. This work really does mean a lot to me- I’m looking forward to going back to it soon.

* * *

**Summary:** You’re young. You’re young in so many ways, and younger still in others. There are pieces of you that are necessary to compose what you need to be in this world; the heir to a lost race, a sibling, a friend- and there are the parts of you that don’t belong anywhere, not at all.

Until suddenly, they do.

* * *

_**There is nothing in life more intimate than being understood- and understanding someone else.** _

_**Where you are understood, you are at home.** _

* * *

**[Run back through and embellish; add more description and context.]**

You are one of eight to lead your people out of the Underground, and there is a remarkable irony, in that. 

Asriel keeps abreast with you, longer legs keeping a slower pace. Your silent constant. Above the beginnings of a golden beard that you personally feel makes him look like an underfed version of your father, his eyes squint against the sunlight that seems ever brighter, the closer you come to it. 

Your own are irritated as well, but there’s a part of you- the child in you, that stood in front of a cave one last time, and memorized the sunset- that knows and processes, pupils dilating appropriately and giving you the chance to adjust to this new intensity; not merely the action of light, but light in its natural form. You hear footsteps to your left and right, a variation of walking patterns that are predominantly foreign to you.

You never took well to the news of another human falling into the Underground as a child, and that temperament never died, as you grew. You know these humans by face, by occupation, by age. You know what you need to.

You know that the one who walks on Asriel’s opposing side was the eldest when they fell, you know the reason their gait differentiates so radically in comparison to the others is due to the fact that of all of you, they were the one who did not fall unscathed. You know the youngest, hair a series of messy ringlets, lives in Snowdin, a heavy jacket adorning their form as they drag their older sibling ahead of you, racing to the top. You know they were the second-last to fall. You know the sun is possibly an even more vivid memory to them than it is to you. There’s every chance they’ve missed it.

And there’s a remarkable irony there, as monsters reach out to embrace the sun for the first time in thousands of years, that the majority of those who lead the way are humans. 

You don’t know any of their names.

You suppose you may never have to learn, now. Last night was the only time you needed to come together. The only time where it was a necessity to work together; the entire Underground as one, willing the Barrier to nonexistence. After this moment, you might not ever see them again.

You stop at the very edge of the cavern’s opening, and one by one, they all pass you by. A cursory nod, from one of them. And though your throat is tight (too tight; everything is too tight), you at least manage that much in turn, watching them walk out into a glow of shapes and vague, pastel colors that form a landscape your eyes haven’t adjusted to seeing.

Your eyes aren’t the only thing not ready to see it.

“Is the sun setting, or rising?” With no hesitation, you let your gaze shift; to the side and up, far higher than you really care to admit they need to in order to take in Asriel’s expression. What you expect is the lax wonderment of the child you’d met years ago, and it is there, certainly. But past that is a tension in his shoulders, a nervous straightening in his spine as he stands at his full height, something he’s often averse to outside of his royal duties- he hates to make others feel as if he’s standing over them.

“Setting,” Is your response, and whilst nerves often leave the rest of your family resorting to clipped, sparse sentences, ones that get to the point, your own mouth continues to shape words, expelling your anxiety into sound. “The sun sets in the west. Aside from that, there’s a difference in how the colors bleed- the way the sky looks.”

“Okay,” He says, and you know he doesn’t really understand. He knows that, too, if the somewhat bemused smile on his face says anything. For the first time, however, that incomprehension doesn’t aggravate you. “I guess I’ll have to find out for myself, huh?”

“You will.” And that is why. There’s never going to be another question like that; a question about the outside world he can’t discover for himself.

He’s been waiting twenty years for this. You suppose you’ve been waiting as well.

For many others, it’s been even longer, so you don’t allow yourself a second’s more time to hesitate. You look to the sun setting on the horizon, to the lights of a town beginning to peek out in the distance, and you step forwards; for him. For them. For your mother and father, awaiting a signal down below. And the monsters that will follow them, and you, to a new world that could be beautiful and so very cruel all at once.

You are the future of humans and monsters.

It is not a role one steps into with vestiges of hesitation draped upon their shoulders.

[I need to add descriptions of like...the boring stuff here? Yeah. How it throws down human to monster wise. Aka “welcome to the surface enjoy being segregated from human society for a bit as we sort all this shit out”.

Annnd then-]

[God fuck nope rewrite this is terrible.]

* * *

**And Then, There's You.  
**

The definition of my life is an acknowledgement

“Some things can’t be understood”

And the ensuing attempts to categorize various aspects of myself into tiny compartments

Of what is suitable for work

What is suitable at home

What must stay private, and hidden

And never see the surface again.

It’s taking the time to recognize in myself the things that

Never really belong anywhere

Razor-sharp words and a voice that dulls to an insignificant whisper, because

Being true to yourself is a discomfort to everyone

Conceal, don’t feel

Should just a line from a song in a movie

Instead of a reality that’s never shaken off.

You can’t say that here; don’t put down into words

What it felt like way back then

To be a child on your own, to look back at your life and recognize the patterns

The intricacy of abuse and degraded mental health

Put on the back burner as unimportant

Through the ignorance of others; the twisted reasoning

Of a mind that stops thinking it can be heard.

Tuck away all the knives in the drawers- you must never brandish

What it feels like to experience this alone

To stand in a circle of people and understand that something in you is so lacking

So undeniably broken

That to have a sense of belonging becomes a daydream

Living inside every lonely aspect of your person

Something you can only achieve on the day you’re finally normal.

And then, there’s you.

When there’s the relief of knowing that you can finally be tired

A soul-deep exhaustion as you stop pretending to be okay;

It’s okay; you know.

It’s not okay; you Know.

And in Knowing comes shared experiences you can’t wish upon the world

Can’t wish upon someone who comes bearing

A balm that sinks into cracks you pretend don’t exist anymore.

And then there’s you.

And with such deep-seated joy comes the mutual acknowledgment

That we wouldn’t be this way together

Had we not been broken first.


	14. May 17 - Discarded Start - What Won't Be Missed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First attempt at What won’t be missed. Again, it’s just a matter of me starting to write something and deciding that it wasn’t working a few pages in, so I started fresh and liked the result a lot more. 
> 
> It took a dozen attempts just to get this far in it; there were a lot of rewrites done to this version alone.

* * *

**I will either find a way**

**Or make one.**

* * *

There is only so much that you can do, and in your own way, you’ve come to understand your limitations. That your actions have consequence, but only so many. The script differs, but stays the same. You stay with your mother, a day longer. You don’t. You like crosswords over junior jumbles, you go on a date. You pour water over a friend in need or you leave them to their own devices; options, and outcomes, and differences. After a while it all becomes the same.

There’s one thing that is always the same, and you wonder, vaguely, how many times you’ve watched him die. How many times the world can decide that he has to go, how many times you will never, ever find the strength to save him, and you’re sorry, you are, but there are some things you can’t change.

You’ve done your best. You’ve done your best, and your worst, a hundred times over. And nothing really changes. Except for you.

You watch him die, with no surprise, and you die, over and over, and you feel pain. You’re burnt. Torn to shreds. Crushed into the ground, until your ribs cave under the pressure, or your skull, and you think, all the while, about how much you’ve done. Your best.

And when there’s nothing left but you and a crumpled flower, you make one of two decisions without hesitation, bringing a dulled blade down and listening, unflinching, to words that have been said to you before, that he knows he’s said before.

“I knew you had it in you.”

Yes, you did.

But you’re done, now.

It’s time to go.

* * *

The site that greets you whenever you leave the Underground is always the same. It’s always sunset, vivid pink and orange hues cast over the skies and the trees from a great big orb, half set beneath the horizon. You step out onto the cliffside, and for a moment, you just breathe, and look out; towards the distance, to the city you’d come from. Again, there’s a choice here, and again, you know the answer behind both routes.

You could stay up here, and sit, and think. Until you’re so hungry you can’t think, and so thirsty you can’t breathe, and so tired you can’t move, until you close your eyes and the scent of flowers builds in your nose, and everything begins all over again. You’ve taken that option more than once, and you know how it ends. It’s always the same, every time. Most times, you don’t even get to receive Sans’ message. Other times, you answer the call, but you can’t speak. And he talks like you never answered anyway.

The alternative to this, you know, is to go back to the city.  _ You have somewhere to be _ , whispers the voice in the back of your mind, and you do. You have somewhere to be, and the end that awaits you there is probably worse than the first option, even if you’ve chosen it time and time again. Always waiting for a change. Always hoping another option would find itself.

You stare down at the city in the distance for a very long time.

And then you turn around, and walk in the other direction. The whisper in the back of your mind says nothing, and you wish it would. You wish one of you knew what to make of this; not a mad decent by any means, but a slow plodding, careful not to trip and potentially come to an end even faster than your first two options had taken you. The side of the mountain is covered in thick overgrowth and thick outcroppings of trees that snatch at your jeans and your sweater, adding marks where there weren’t any before, creating scratches and scuffs to tender flesh that’s seen worse, nothing to call home about.

Your lips twitch upwards a little. That was a joke.

You hardly make it to the base of the mountain before night truly falls, and things become all the more dangerous and foreign. There’s an exhilaration to that idea which keeps any fear at bay; the idea of doing something new, seeing things you haven’t seen before. You carefully examine each and every tree. Every outline the branches and leaves make against the night sky as your fingers curl into your sleeves, numb from the cold. If you’d walked down the other side of the mountain, you would have reached the city by dawn, and you know that you’ll have a cough for two weeks afterwards, and that the cough will get worse, and never better. One night, you’d snuck into the kitchen and taken some painkillers from the cupboard above the stove, just so you could sleep. 

You only ever did it once.

For now, your breathing is easy, and there’s no whistle to every exhale, no wheeze when your lungs fill with air. You march on with the calm understanding that you need to take advantage of that, because if you’re too slow, you’ll get sick, and if you’re still sick before you reach somewhere to stay, you probably won’t make it anywhere at all. That’s happened before, too.

_ You consider that a lot of things have happened to you before. _

It’s true. A lot of things have happened to you before. And that’s okay.

You’re still Determined.

* * *

Just as the stars begin to vanish from the sky overhead, you find somewhere to stay- for a little while. The windows of the house are dark, and you tell yourself that you don’t really need to stay for too long; the barn is unlocked, and there’s chickens, and they’re cute, clucking at you from their nests in neat little rows that line a good amount of the space about you, angular shadows in the darkness turning into chicken-sized ramps if you squint at them long enough. It smells like feathers, and dirt, and there’s hay on the floor which smells clean, and it’s sort of warm. You don’t even realize how cold you are until you’ve flopped down into it, your body immediately beginning a series of violent shudders that take a very long time to calm down. 

Your nose feels stuffy, which is the start of your cough. That’s okay. Even if you don’t feel well when you wake up, you’ll have slept, and you can keep walking a little. Just a little more, and then maybe you’ll find somewhere better. Somewhere you never have to close your eyes, and smell the scent of flowers getting stronger and stronger in your nostrils.

The next time you open your eyes, it’s because a chicken darts over your face, clucking irritably and flapping it’s wings. There’s a shadow in the open doorway, casting over your prone form, and you don’t stay still for very long.

The eyes that meet your own are surprised, but they aren’t unkind. The thing that attracts your attention the most is the shawl across her shoulders; made with a simple stitch (and you wouldn’t really know that, except you do, and it doesn’t really surprise you), but soft and warm, pretty browns and oranges that makes you think of autumn instead of early spring, the last vestiges of winter holding tightly to the air about you, making your lungs feel like they’re full of fuzz.

You’re sick, now. It doesn’t seem to matter when the difference between inside and outside is the old woman blocking your path. You try not to let your mind think of other old women, blocking your path.

Sunlight isn’t fire, you tell yourself. Her shawl isn’t fire, either. She’s alive.

She is, too. She never picks up her phone. And now she’s probably too busy to talk to you.

_ You consider that it’s better to be busy than be dead. _

And your eyes sting, but you think that might have something to do with how itchy your nose is.

“...Well now,” The lady finally says, and her voice is so thin, and soft, but so very strong. The surprise is still there, but so is a smile, and she holds her arm up a little higher, empty basket hanging in the crook of her elbow. “I’m sorry, dear, but you don’t seem to be a chicken.”

“Sorry.” You tell her; or try to, but the most that comes out is a quiet ‘s’, before the word is stolen by a sneeze. You rub at your nose, and stray bits of straw fall from your sleeve. 

She laughs, and just like her shawl, the sound reminds you of playfully crinkling leaves, and your lips twitch upwards uncertainly as she takes you in with an almost knowing glint to her eyes, the creases around them deepening the wider her smile becomes. 

“In that case, would you like to be my helper, this morning? The sooner we collect these eggs, the sooner we can go inside, and have a nice cup of tea.”

You nod so fast your hair whips against your cheek, and you hold her basket with careful dedication as she checks each nest in turn, cheerfully telling you the name of all of her birds as she goes. Whiskers, and Mittens, and Fido. The black and white speckled one is simply named Dog.

The more names she tells you, the more your brow creases, and she thinks that’s funny too.

Her name is Autumn, and when you go inside, she gives you tea and cookies, before letting you sleep some more in her bed. And when you wake up coughing, she lets you have some painkillers and tells you to sleep some more.

_ You’re happy to comply. _

* * *

The most surprising thing, you think, is that you get worse a lot faster. Autumn keeps you in bed for most of it, or bundled up in her cushy rocking chair, and you watch the world out the window hazily, and on the second day in her home, it rains, just like you remembered it would. Your new caretaker doesn’t seem to mind, and she spends a lot of time chatting to you; about her chickens, or stories from her youth; she had a husband once, and she talks of him very fondly. She doesn’t say where he is, and you don’t ask, but the absence of another, comfy rocking chair instead of the couch that seems mostly untouched seemingly saddens you a lot more than it does her.

In fact, there’s no one else around at all, for the four days you’re sick. You get worse quicker, and you get better quicker, and throughout it all Autumn makes sure that you stay wrapped up in blankets and warm, handknit shawls, giving you sweet, hot teas that make your throat feel a little less raw, even when you cough almost constantly. You never have to ask for painkillers, either; she tells you to take them, and you don’t say no.

If you did, you think she’d get a little cross. It’s nice.


	15. June 17 - Complete - Smudge + Mountain Climber

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first of these is from June, the second from December, but they’re both short, complete drabbles, and it seems a waste to not whack them in together.

* * *

**PROMPT:** Describe a place

Think about colors- palette  
Hear - what do you hear; distant, close, breath, heartbeat  
Smell/taste- how does your body react to smell/taste  
Feel- temperature, surface underfoot, object closest what would it be like, physical fee- tension  
See- shapes, sizes, names, tall, small, etc  
Feel- heart and mind

* * *

There’s a smudge on the mirror, in direct parallel to the middle of their forehead. It shouldn’t be an object of fixation, and yet it is. An aberration on the otherwise clean surface, reflecting soft, cream walls in the morning light. 

It’s out of place. A blemish to the almost hotel-like atmosphere of a room kept unerringly tidy; the bed is already made, no clothes on the floor. Everything tucked away or otherwise ornamental. The bland, metal lamp on the bedside table. A green vase almost overflowing with yellow flowers. Like a hotel, with nothing out of place. A room that people walked out of and left behind, would lose the finer details of as the day wore on. They flex their toes, exhale slowly as the distant sound of their family meeting the morning drifts upwards from the kitchen downstairs. The early risers. Every member of their family is an early riser, ready and capable of rolling from warm cocoons of blankets to meet the day. The only noise louder than the cheerful clink of china in the kitchen is short, shallow breaths escaping their lips, as they prepare themself for the day.

There’s a blemish, in the mirror. Eyes glued to it, they step to the side, watching their perspective shift and change, until they can’t see their image in the mirror at all.

And the blemish is gone.

* * *

**Mountain Climber.**

Every breath is agony. You have one arm pressed to your side as tightly as possible- and whilst it doesn’t stop the all encompassing waves of pain shooting from your ribs and up your spine like fire, you can move, somehow. You can’t  _ not _ move, right now. You  _ have _ to keep going.

The sun came up an hour ago. Someone is going to find it soon. Someone is going to see what you’ve done.

And then they’re going to come for you.

It’s hard, even with that motivation, to concentrate. On the pretty surroundings of the tree covered mountain-side around you. It wavers in your vision, with every ungainly step, every motion that just causes more  **burning agony** , and your arm remains the only brace to hinder the damage (you heard a crack. You heard at least one, and your ribs don’t look right. Your side was black, when you paused to look under the blood soaked sweater adorning your torso), and you’re afraid that if you let up that pressure, it will be enough to send you crashing to the ground-- and who knows?

You might not get back up.

The mountain’s incline, getting sharper and sharper, the further you go, just makes this all the more difficult. Of course it does. It’s a mountain, but you’ve made your choice. You are not stopping now.

You’re… you’re not stopping now.

But you have to stop for a second. Air is a necessary factor to motion, and you’re struggling to gain that much. As an excuse for the pause, you look down at yourself, noting that at least… the blood coating most of your front is… dry, at this point. Your lips wobble with the disctint urge to smile, a somewhat hysterical giggle bubbling past your lips.

Your ribs make you regret that, near immediately.

And then it’s time to keep going. There’s no path for you to follow, just patches between the trees and undergrowth that you slowly navigate your way around, hyper aware of every little stone and bump ahead of you- anything with the potential to make you stumble and fall. And throughout it all, you feel somewhat-- outside of this moment. As if there were someone else moving your limbs, as if the world itself, for all it’s bright, vibrant colors, was distorted by the constant ringing in your ears. Your jaw also aches, and you wonder how you could possibly feel that when you’re almost certain half your side has caved in.

And there’s no one around, anymore, to tell you off for laughing at that. No one to look down the end of their nose, to press their lips together in a manner that tells you- you’re in for it, later. No more expectations, no more pressure. You are alone, and it is, perhaps, the most freeing moment of your short life.

Then the ground starts levelling out. Your shoes meet a lip of rock, taking the focus of your eyes from the few feet immediately ahead of you to what you’ve found, no matter how coincidental. A cave.

The opening is wide, and vast- and altogether a little threatening, despite the fact that natural light appears to be pouring in from somewhere inside. For someone not looking to be found, it’s the perfect hideaway.

And you are certainly not looking to be found.


	16. Jul 17 - Complete - Drabbles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few more of those Chara character studies- the first two I singled out to explain more. **You Broke It** very heavily inspired a scene in **Drive It Like You Stole It** , and was written sometime in July. 
> 
> **Smile** was the original part 1 of **Amen** , taking on a social view, rather than religious. It didn’t read as well, so it was replaced. 
> 
> The last drabble is just another character study, dabbling into their emotions during the No Mercy route.

* * *

**You Broke It**

Your shovel’s handle comes off. It was already loose (you’re absolutely certain it was already loose, because your hand barely wraps all the way around the handle, and you’re not  _ that _ strong), but that doesn’t change the fact that you’re now staring down at a stick of metal stuck into the ground, piece of green, lacquered wood in hand. You broke it. You broke it, and he’s going to be so-

As- the ki- no.  **Asgore** has his back to you, humming quietly under his breath as he waters the patch of flowers you’d both spent the last hour ripping the weeds out of, and hastily, you push the handle back into place, backing away before it falls apart again.

It’s a beautiful day today. The sun, shining down through the barrier. Birds singing, flowers blooming.

What a fantastic day to die, you think. Golly, and poor Asriel will never know, will he? Asgore will just toddle back home after he’s done, and without a scrap of your body left to prove him wrong, he could say anything. You fell down another hole, a bigger hole. Tripped into a pitchfork. Got into a deadly tangle with the hydrangeas; didn’t work out for you. Oh well, it was just a human. Nothing to worry about.

“Chara.” You jump at the sound of your own name (not nearly high enough, but you fantasize having jumped straight through the roof all the same), watching with increasing panic as the large monster turns towards you. He has to be three times your height and- he could probably crush three of your skulls with one hand. At the same time. “Could I request your assistance for one moment, please?”

Or perhaps he’s out of fertilizer. Laughter bubbles in your throat, and you press your lips together for a moment, refusing to let it out.

“Sir?” Is all you manage instead. He waves you over, and like a lamb (oh, a joke!) to the slaughter, you come closer, despite every inch of your being advising you to get a running start. The king, for all his regality and shining fur, has extremely dirty hands. Plants in his hands.

...He actually does have….plants in his hands.

“Do you know what this flower is called?” His rumbling tone hasn’t lost it’s kindness just yet, but all the same, you can’t manage more than a shake of your head. “Aster. Pretty, and very abundant. So much so that sometimes they require a little more space than what they allow themselves, to grow.”

A low, pondering hum of a sound. You don’t quite understand the look he’s giving you, but there’s a sinking sensation in the pit of your stomach that says he’s talking more about you than the flowers.

“I do believe humans call this method dividing.”

“I would have thought plants were better off staying in the ground.” Oh. No, that was tongue in cheek. “Sir.”

He laughs at you. Then again, he laughs at everything, so no need to pat yourself on the back just yet.

“That is true! However, in order to allow them all to grow… a helping paw can always move them to better soils.” Asgore gestures at you, and when you hold out your hands, a bulb is placed in them. Leaves, root system. No flowers, not at this time of year, but it is distinctly an entire flower you’re holding up, and you get the distinct sensation of cradling something that would be easily destroyed.

Not...that you’d want to.

“...Then where do we plant them?”

“I would like for you to decide.” Aha...and the trap is set. Your eyes flick up to his, and despite the open kindness, you can just imagine the wheels turning in the back of his mind. It’s a trap. Let you do what you want, make you think you’re doing okay, and then when you really  _ aren’t _ , oh, you’ll be-

“Sir.” Your voice sounds off, even to you. Hands dirty and far too much space to choose a location in which your mistakes will rest. He’s going to be so furious, once he realizes that you’ve already broken the shovel, but that’s hardly your biggest problem right now.

You have to plant a flower.

* * *

**SMILE**

Opinions are not beneficial in a social environment. The party (as most were calling it, instead of the excessively long title he had impressed upon them again and again, until the words practically  throbbed and blistered against their skin came out of their mouth without thinking) might be a little too flashy, a little overly entitled, if Chara were entitled to such a thought. The hall the event was taking place in-  _ might  _ be a little over decorated, and said decorations  _ might  _ clash in color scheme, instead of being complementary.

The heaters  _ may  _ be turned down a little too much; goosebumps prickling on their bare arms as they try to keep perfectly still. The band was  _ perhaps  _ a little too loud. They  _ might  _ wish, potentially, to be anywhere but here, right now-

However. Opinions are not. Beneficial.

In a social environment.

Or welcome.

So, instead of thinking and changing the potential development of such  _ personal  _ bias, Chara doesn’t think at all. They stand, unerringly straight, without fidgeting. Gaze fixed blankly on the far wall (that is  _ hardly  _ in need of a paint job) as he greets everyone in turn, only moving when he moves, listening to the name of each person as he says them, as he speaks to them all like a friend. Enquiring as to the wellbeing of their family, their work, their homes.

Loyal to a fault, Chara stands by his side.

(They will _may_ be expected to remember it all later, even if he doesn’t. Especially if he doesn’t.)

People like to comment, on that sort of thing.

“Such a good child,” One woman praises. She  _ could  _ be wearing too much make up,  _ potentially  _ causing her face to appear like an overripe peach.

“They’re growing up well,” Compliments another; he  _ could  _ be hiding his balding state beneath a mop-like toupe, which  _ might  _ be fooling no one.

“Chara- that is their name, yes?- Looks so dashing in…”  _ Potentially  _ hiding the silverware she stole off a table in her purse.

“Keeping them out of trouble? That’s good; it builds character.” Almost like  _ possibly  _ being blackmailed to ensure a new road doesn’t pass through a farmer’s fields, after his wife  _ potentially  _ had an affair with him, for just that purpose.

And they all smile down at Chara, who, without glancing towards the heavy presence at their side, understands that they  _ are  _ expected to acknowledge them.

Because they  _ might _ be a good child.

Because they  _ may  _ have been raised well.

Because they  _ might  _ look dashing.

Because they  _ are  _ building character.

Everyone smiles down at Chara.

Effortlessly, they  _ smile  _ back.

* * *

**NOBODY CAME**

Feels good, to be in control again.

Slowly, you exhale. Numbers bounce through your mind, a mental checklist that never changes, no matter how many times you've done this. Reset thirty-three, number 16. Finally.

Anything that once lived here will have long since fled.

Idly, you spin the stick between your fingers as you walk. Could be for some vague sense of amusement, but the only reason you're aware the stick is moving is because you can feel your fingers shift with it. With an equal amount of ease, you let your foot scuff across the floor- through the pile of dust in front of you.

Your lips twitch upwards.

It's her turn, now.

You get moving. The ghost is no longer in your path ( **wasting your time** ) and the next room is just as empty as the one before. No solemn advice for you. No fourth froggit, hiding in the walls. Ten steps before she calls you again, for the thirty-third time at this same location, and you-

Whip around quickly the moment you sense a threat, SOUL bursting from your chest and stick raised high as you narrow your eyes at- absolutely nothing.

Nothing's there.

Nobody came.

But you still wait several moments before you lower your arm, neck prickling and breathing harsh in your own ears. It feels like you've just run a marathon, SOUL not the only thing threatening to burst out of your chest.

But nobody came.

You've killed them all. Of course nobody came.

Nobody is ever going to come again.

  
  
  
  


Not until you will them to.


	17. Nov 17 - Incomplete - Five Times Chara and Frisk Were On Their Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second-last piece! Self-explanatory!

* * *

**Title:** Five Times Chara and Frisk Were on Their Own, and One Time They Weren’t.  
**Rating:** M  
**Tags:** implied self-harm, violence, death, the tags make this sound like a hell story, but it’s just realistic fluff

**Summary:** another, silly AU in which Chara is brought back through the power of Evading Just How That Happened, and helps Frisk through the Underground. At which point the two become an unstoppable force of nature which takes over the entire world with charm and eerie smiles.

* * *

  1. In the Underground
  2. Trying to choose some clothes for a meeting
  3. Nightmares
  4. Getting lost
  5. Chara and Frisk versus the world (arguments)
  6. A birthday, of sorts.



* * *

“According to all known laws of aviation, there is no way that a child should be able to fly. Their non-existent wings are too small to get their puppy fat filled body off the ground. The child, of course, flies anyway, because children don’t care what anyone thinks is impossible.”

Frisk wonders, sometimes, if Chara spent most of the time in their headspace digging about for memes. They didn’t really think it was possible, for Chara’s disposition to get saucier than it already was- but now that they have their own body, their own voice (which, in turn, means that anyone and everyone can hear them, whenever Chara decides) it almost feels like they’re coming on twice as strong, making little to no attempt to hide their scorn for the monsters in the Underground.

Staying with Toriel for a while had been interesting. That...that was one way of putting it. What Chara did or said in those few days, Frisk doesn’t know, but what they do know is that the doors to the Ruins were still wide open, just before they walked out of sight, and mom still has her phone.

Which is nice, since that means she’s not dead. They’d feel bad for finding that to be such a positive thought, but Chara… Chara can get pretty angry, sometimes.

When they aren’t hiding it behind jokes.

“Really though, Frisk. Don’t you ever think about it? We were up in the air for a good thirty seconds, at least. I know you aren’t good at long jump.” Their Partner holds up a hand. “Not that I’m any better. So then, why is it that one instance which seems to break the rules and limitations of Blue Magic? I bet he was going easy on us. I should demand a rematch.”

The date with Papyrus is being saved for later. Even so, Chara had charmingly- strong-armed his phone number from him.  _ We can’t really be in the friendzone without it, can we? Are we truly your friends, Papyrus? Are we? _ Frisk’s absolutely positive they only did it so they could call him in the middle of their brunch date with Sans, just to derail everything.

...It was pretty funny.

And they’re enjoying themself, Frisk thinks. Or rather, Frisk knows- knows that the light skip to their step and the more genuine curves to the smile on their face are actually genuine, knows that they’re doing their best to dish out japes over punishment; knows that, when Chara’s knuckles brush against their own, it’s not accidental. Which is fine.

They like knowing where Chara is, too.

The most amazing thing, they think, is how seamlessly Chara fits the Underground. Once they’d gotten used to walking on their own two feet again, they did it with the confidence of someone who’d long since memorized their every step- one hundred years, more, couldn’t take away the fact that this had once been their home. And everything felt different, for it. This wasn’t the same, futile attempts they’d made before. This wasn’t Chara quietly attempting to guide them in the only way they could, as monster after monster threatened their life (...accidentally, they think. Most of the time).

This newest journey, with Flowey dogging their steps quietly with a gaping mouth and wide eyes, with a tearful Toriel who’d spent an equal amount of time with Chara and Frisk both, to the best of her abilities- it wasn’t just about survival, or going home.

With every step they took together, it felt like the entire purpose of their constantly in tandem steps was to give Chara the chance to take their home back. And Frisk was fine with that. This timeline was already different. It would continue to be different. Together…

Together, they could make this work. They really could.

“Hand me those bridge seeds.” Chara instructs. Diligently, Frisk moves to do as they’re told, passing over each pod for Chara to toss into the small stream. In the next room they’d need to do this again. The next, a room of wishes. And then Waterfall.

And then Undyne.

“So? Don’t keep me in suspense, Partner? Do you think Papyrus was cheating?” Chara opts to walk across the bridge first, holding a hand aloft to them- to use for balance. Personally, Frisk doesn’t think they need it, but they also think that saying so will bring up the one timeline where they both took a swim.

So they take it anyway, corners of their eyes crinkling in quiet amusement at their Partner’s fixation.

“He was cheating,” They confirm- before adding in a somewhat stern voice; “But you’re not fighting him again.”

Fight, not FIGHT. 

They’re not FIGHTing him, either.

“I came here to have a good time, Frisk,” Chara sighs. But their hand stays steady. They don’t curl their fingers over the back of Frisk’s palm. They don’t clutch, or grab. The two of them make it across the bridge safely, and the moment of contact is over. But it was enough. “And I’m honestly feeling so-”

Aaron flexes in.

It takes both of them by surprise, something that Frisk is both grateful and alarmed by. Is this the second or third time this has happened? The second or third time they’ve been so wrapped up in each other, they failed to realize one of them was being pulled into a FIGHT until it was too late?

Aaron winks at them. Chara looks unamused. Between the three of them, Frisk’s heart hovers patiently, a few feet off the ground. That’s okay. It’s okay. They’ve done this all before. Shifting their feet into a wide stance, Frisk flexes both arms, puffing out their cheeks. They’re strong. They’re powerful.

Chara’s going to tell them they look ridiculous.

“You look ridiculous.” Chara says, and it takes all Frisk’s self-restraint to not stick out their tongue. Aaron likes it, so that’s all that matters, right?

“Ooh, a flexing contest? Okay, I’ll flex too.” Aaron says, which is about the time when Chara’s expression shifts. About the time when something becomes blatantly, obviously wrong.

Did they heal, after they fought Papyrus. Did they SAVE?

No, Frisk realizes, stomach sinking. No they didn’t. And their SOUL  _ looks  _ okay, but it always does. It’s not a visible thing, when it’s hurt. It doesn’t really bother them, when they’re just walking around.


	18. Feb 18 - Incomplete - Another Lovely Trophy (For My Diminishing Faith in Humanity)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incomplete oneshot. I usually write Chara as having grown increasingly more distressed over a pacifist timeline, due to how they see the world being because of their death. No Mercy is a tipping point for them, caused by either hearing Asriel’s somewhat discarding words, or by watching Asgore request Frisk to become the ambassador for monsters, thereby dooming another kid to take up the role they’d died for.
> 
> This was absolutely going to be an exploration leading up to such a run. And I will probably steal the title for this in future.

* * *

**ANOTHER LOVELY TROPHY (FOR MY DIMINISHING FAITH IN HUMANITY)**

* * *

_ yesterday I found _

_ a blade emerging _

_ from my chest; _

_ with a skilled hand _

_ I pulled it through _

_ and licked it clean. _

_ another lovely trophy _

_ for my diminishing faith in humanity. _

* * *

i.

She is still your mother.

She guides them with such gentle hands and words, acting like the worst has never happened. You follow her actions through their eyes and a steadily growing sense of disbelief, of confusion. You don’t understand, but you want to- oh, the things that you want. But wanting has never gotten you anywhere, and your queries ring like bells through whatever vague sense of consciousness you have, and yours alone.

_ ⚹Filled with shoes in a disparity of sizes. _

Asriel did not wear shoes. If you recall correctly (and you do. Your mind has always been a steel trap you can’t escape from; every action and every word engraving itself in flashes of seconds and minutes that are as clear as the day they occurred) your apparent need for such cumbersome clothing had taken everyone aback, at first; because rocks are not usually full of consciousness, and the ground isn’t intent to cause hurt. The fact that you could do things like get cold or hot, slice open your skin and have red run from orifices that weren’t meant to be there were a cause of curiosity most times, and alarm on others. Usually alarm, by the end.

All the tools for the fire have been filed down and blunted, and you wonder, you wonder- with your sick, twisted mind and inability to lose yourself to dreams like they do, how many children have called her mother now. How many times over has she seen fit to replace you; how often that had proved for the best.

You don’t mind for your own sake, but you mind. You mind for the two missing pieces of her life that had been there long before you; not a single indication of one such piece in any room of the house. The other is simply broken crayons and some toys that do not interest them, not even long enough to give pause. You’re hardly disappointed about that.

You’re disappointed because she is still your mother. She leaves them pie by the bed, and greets them warmly upon their approach. She’s glad that they are there, and knows to speak to them about their education going forwards. Your mother always wanted to be a teacher; and she had been, to you. To your sibling, in slow, lazy afternoons where the two of you passed notes to each other, as if she didn’t have eyes. As if you weren’t the only two children in the room. She’d taught you etiquette and ways of speaking, what to do when your presence was required in a large, packed space, and your sweaty palms started trembling violently against your sides. She’s a good mother, and you’re further disappointed at the fact that she embraces this so fully, for a child she barely knew- even a child whose mindset was firmly planted into the disbelief at her care for them, even a child you could actually understand, no matter how unfortunate their species.

She never gives you answers, and you feel like it’s your fault, when she reads them interesting facts about snails. Your fault when they pause, and they hesitate, and they still ask to leave. Because her kindness is so blinding to them, and there’s no fostered sense of belief in its sincerity, and you still want to leave.

You could have told them to stay. You could have told them she really did love them.

You don’t.

Toriel is your mother, but your faith in that thought shakes itself loose as she turns towards them with fire in her hands, and tells them to prove their worth.  _ ⚹Knows what’s best for you _ , you tell them, when they look inwards and try to find some guidance on what to do. You’ve offered reassurance in every single space till now, but not this one. Not this one. You could still tell them to stay, just as you could tell them that she really does love them

Except you look up and you don’t see her, and you don’t see  _ him _ , precisely, and they don’t see  _ them _ , just a horrible amalgamate of every single one of  **Them** , and she sets their body aflame and has the audacity to look frightened at the fact that their body burns as easily as yours did, and when your- their (our?) SOUL shatters, it feels like everything you’ve ever known shatters with it.

Perhaps, it is simple. That anyone has the ability to raise their hand against a child, and you were always wrong.

You were always wrong.

* * *

ii.

Their eyes stream from the blinding sight of snow, and it takes several hundred steps down the road before they clear again. Snowdin Forest is just how you remember, but it still feels empty, bitter.

They take great care not to step on the tree branch and snap it. You almost snap yourself when it breaks. You both could swear someone is following them, and the lightheadedness is two-sided, the pressing weight on their lungs a unified Thing that rings loudly in their ears, louder. They’re being stalked, and it comes to a point where they’re simply too petrified to move- the both of you are, bracing yourselves for the impact of something that doesn’t happen, and whoopie cushions are always, always funny. Always funny. Always. Funny. 

Haha.

You dislike Sans as much as you dislike the hiccup of laughter that escapes them, watery and shaken and not amused. It’s not amused. He doesn’t seem to notice, or he simply doesn’t care, bullying them into position with jokes pretending to be threats, or threats pretending to be jokes, and every time he nods at the lamp, they shake harder, and you decide that you hate him.

The words that would have escaped you, had he the gumption to treat you as such and then request a favor in the same breath, never leave the lips from the body you reside in. They say nothing, as they’re so often prone to do, and he takes that as acquiescence to his every whim, filling in the gaps and speaking for them when courage fails and they’re left out in the cold.

Quite literally left out in the cold.


End file.
